


Loving Him Was Gray

by jekyll_inside



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Grantaire, Background Relationships, Cosette And Enjolras Are Siblings, Depression, Disabled Character, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Enjolras/Grantaire-centric, F/F, F/M, Female Character of Color, Grantaire & Jean Prouvaire Friendship, Grantaire Angst, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, LGBTQ Female Character, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Male Character of Color, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Slow Burn, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-05-30 20:29:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6439225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jekyll_inside/pseuds/jekyll_inside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Everyone’s whole lives were supposed to revolve around finding their soulmate (god knows the poets had nothing better to write about, and the pop songs didn’t even try), but Grantaire hadn’t thought about his own bonding much. It was hard to miss something you’d never had, and that no one could really explain to you. That was what he told people, anyway.'</p>
<p>Or: the soulmate color au where finding Grantaire's soulmate is pretty high on the 'worst-things-that-have-ever-happened-to-him' list. And it's not even a short list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bygoneboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bygoneboy/gifts), [icarxs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarxs/gifts).



> hope you enjoy, lovelies! ^_^
> 
> i've made myself not read the other soulmate color au stuff out there so that i still had the guts to upload mine (eep!) so i hope you like my own take on it!
> 
> this fic is a large one, most of it already done. i'll tag any triggers at the beginning of chapters but do let me know if you'd like others!
> 
> chapter 1 tw/// minor death mention.

Courfeyrac’s day-care was on the ground floor of his apartment building. You could hear, as always, the roar of New York beyond the bright windows - but all the children here had been born with that background, so they didn’t notice. The walls in the biggest room are covered with coloured flowers and stars, cut out of construction paper by good-natured, tired staff, and the floor has spongey purple mats down to stop little feet and hands from smacking on floorboards. None of the children can see the colours. To Courfeyrac, the different greys all over the walls are pretty, and he gives one of the biggest flowers (that he pulled off with both hands and a lot of effort) to the other child sitting next to him. It’s a lovely warm grey, and he hopes it will make his friend stop sniffling.

It’s Jehan that Courfeyrac is sitting with, in the corner of the room under a blanket that Courfeyrac also dragged over. Jehan doesn’t understand what any pronouns are yet, let alone that they’ll use ‘they/their’ when they’re older (announcing it with a flourish of their arms to Courfeyrac himself and a particular group of students they haven’t met yet, all with their heads buried in their dissertations). Jehan looks at it now, then reaches out and clutches it with their right hand. Their left hand lies in their lap, not useless but tired. Jehan’s hemiplegic, and although neither of them know what that means (Jehan’s parents are only just having it explained to them by the paediatrician), Courfeyrac knows that Jehan wants to just sit. He can feel the other child’s unhappiness because Courfeyrac is remarkably empathetic for his age – really he always will be – and they both sit there in their corner wondering why Jehan can’t run around like the others can.

Courfeyrac’s mother knows that his son’s eyes are a gorgeous hazel – the kind where there’s green and brown and lances of orange on sunny days – and that they’re like his father’s eyes, although Courfeyrac doesn’t see him often because he’s in Afghanistan. His mother gave him her hair – a tight halo of brown frizz that he ‘gets from the Italian side’, apparently. Jehan likes to pull at it because it’s soft, and they like how it goes straight before they let go. They’re only gentle though, with their big doe eyes and dark fringe, and Courfeyrac knows that.

Someone disturbs their blanket.

“What are you doing under here, my lovelies?” Mama Pip has very white skin and she smells like soap and hugs, her almost white hair (blonde) tied back from sticky fingers. Courfeyrac takes Jehan’s hand and waves at her with his other now they’ve been discovered.

“Mama Pip!” he says, and when Jehan copies him a second later she smiles, and says something to them in a tone that implies excitement. They stand up obediently with curious eyes, and Mama Pip picks Jehan up. Courfeyrac doesn’t mind, and takes her free hand.

“Let’s go and say hello, boys,” she says warmly (Jehan too young to care yet), and they understand enough to know there is a New Person. They make their way over to the front of the playroom, Mama Pip carefully stepping over Legos in her flip flops, and she puts the two of them down with the other children. Another member of staff, who the children don’t bother remembering the name of, is standing next to a very tall parent. Courfeyrac’s mouth opens as he looks up at him – he’s wearing a suit and his skin looks charcoal grey. Then he notices the little boy holding the man’s hand, barely as tall as his knee. The boy is in a white polo, its collar nice and neat, and shorts that are a pale grey. The glasses on his face are big and thick-framed, and they’re the same shade as his hair. It’s more curly than Courfeyrac’s, and he knows immediately that his mother must have ‘an Italian side’ too.

“What do we say to new friends, children?” the other staff lady says, and it’s more the way her tone goes up at the end than the words themselves that causes the children to chorus a “Hello-o!”

Courfeyrac looks at the other little boy some more, and when the boy’s own dark eyes find his then quickly look away, he knows he’s scared. He puts his thumb in his mouth like that when he’s scared too. So Courfeyrac grins gappily at him and wanders over, the adults talking above their heads about something called ‘bilingual’.

Courfeyrac shouts a happy “Hello!” because that’s what makes his mother laugh when she’s looking at pictures of Daddy, and the other boy blinks a lot. Then he smiles a little bit, and after a thoughtful moment reaches a dark hand to Courfeyrac’s curls. When the small weight of his hand rests on Courfeyrac’s head, the boy’s glasses become green, and for him, Courfeyrac’s dungarees become blue.

They look at each other. Then they giggle.

 

*

 

“Okay, no, honestly guys, you have to see this.”

“Courf, really-“

“Oh come on, ‘Taire, don’t act like you’re shy.”

Grantaire sighed dramatically, leaning the wooden chair he sat on back until it creaked and casting a glance out the window. He could see Brooklyn Bridge on clear days like this, and he smiled, liking the pale symmetry of the architecture over the grey water.

“Grantaire!” Courfeyrac said, snapping his fingers in his face and making Grantaire jump.

“Jeez, alright, alright,” he murmured, still rather distractedly as he started hashing out a plan for when he could next drag his easel up to this window of the Musain. Then he forced himself to look away from the future sketch, and rested an arm on the window sill. “Go on then,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

Courfeyrac grinned and threw a look a glance at his soulmate, who had been dragged away from a conversation with Enjolras about the adoption rights of non-bonded couples for this. “Pick something in here, ‘Ferre,” he told him, gesturing a hand around the room at large. “Something brightly coloured.”

Combeferre – neuroscience graduate – cocked an eyebrow, and felt the argument that he was too busy for this sort of thing dissolve when he looked at Courfeyrac’s excited face. He cast his eyes around the room. It was a small space, a little cold in the late fall if it wasn’t for the heated arguments, and his eyes soon fell on Enjolras. He was standing at the top of the stairs with Jehan, looking a little sceptically at the three of them. He was a law major.

“Enjolras’ jacket,” Combeferre decided, voice softly accented, and it won him a raised eyebrow from the blonde. Courfeyrac let out one of his small, pointless bursts of laughter, and Combeferre smiled at it.

“Okay Grantaire.” He turned to the artist expectantly, propping his frizzy head on his hands against the ring-stained table. “What else is that colour?”

“Courf.”

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said, only a fraction after Combeferre, and Joly glanced up with Bossuet from the other corner. Grantaire was unbonded – that is, he hadn’t found his soulmate – so it was rude to ask that kind of thing.

“No it’s cool,” Courfeyrac insisted, looking expectantly at Grantaire again and adding in a more hushed, dramatic tone: “it’s part of the thing.”

Grantaire glanced at Enjolras, and when their leader’s silver eyes met his he hoped he didn’t notice his cheeks get a little greyer as he blushed. “Um,” he began, scratching the back of his head unconsciously as he looked at the bold, warm shade of that jacket, just edging towards the blacks and nearly always in his art. God, it fit him like a glove. “Fire trucks are that colour, when they’re in the shade. And the stripes on the American flag. Or the French,” he added, because it seemed a crime to associate Enjolras with the strongest capitalist power in the world. “The third stripe on the French flag.

Enjolras blinked in surprise.

“See?” Courfeyrac said excitedly, glancing round at every other suddenly surprised expression. “He just mentioned it in passing last week and I couldn’t believe it!”

Combeferre titled his head by about five degrees. “You can distinguish between those shades?” he asked, and that was exactly the reaction his soulmate had been looking for.

“He can, he can identify all the colours by their shades, look,” he murmured, before leaning towards Grantaire and blinking owlishly at him. “What colour are my eyes, ‘Taire?”

Grantaire had a bit of a love-hate relationship with being the centre of attention when he was this sober, but he let it happen. “Leaves and chocolate. Green and brown.” He may have added that last bit just to show off – Courfeyrac had taught him the names of the different colours, and Grantaire had quickly learnt to apply them to the right flavour of grey. It was effective, and Bossuet whistled from the wall.

“How the hell do you know that?” he asked, much to Courfeyrac’s delight, and Grantaire shrugged.

“Sometimes there’s orange in there too, like the colour of Feuilly’s cat,” he added, stretching.

“No _way_ ,” Joly whispered. He was unbounded too – neither he, Bossuet or Musichetta were soulmates because Bossuet’s was his sister and Musichetta’s was a little girl at the homeless foundation she work for, and he, like everyone else who saw in shades, could only distinguish between what was lighter and darker.

Enjolras, to Grantaire’s intense embarrassment, had started staring at him.

“There’s no way you can do that if you’re not bonded,” Combeferre said. He was frowning at him from behind his glasses.

“Well I haven’t found my soulmate overnight, ‘Ferre,” he replied with another shrug.

“Isn’t it great?” Courfeyrac hummed between them, and now he was slouched with his head on his arms. “You should make Grantaire the subject of your thesis, ‘Ferre.”

Combeferre glanced at him, then at Grantaire again. “What shade is my sweater, Grantaire?” he asked. The others around them shifted a little closer, Enjolras and Jehan included, because that was Combeferre’s ‘I’ve-just-discovered-a-scientific-anomaly’ voice, usually only heard when he realised a moth on his wall wasn’t documented in New York at this time of year.

“Blue,” Grantaire said.

“And how do you know that?”

“Because it’s like how the sky is in summer, and you guys call that blue,” he replied, smirking and pretending not to notice Enjolras still staring at him.

“There’s no way you can remember that.” Combeferre’s face was neutral but sharpened by slight confusion. “And there’s no way you can distinguish between colours in the first place – they don’t have any identifying character once you make them all part of the grey spectrum.”

He shrugged. “If you say so.” 

“Grantaire, you have to be bonded to be able to see like that,” Jehan said quietly, leaning on their cane behind Combeferre and brushing their bangs out of their eyes. “Combeferre’s right.”

“Well how do you explain it then?” he returned. Jehan was his roommate, they were very close. “Maybe I just have a good memory.”

Combeferre shook his head. “You don’t understand, Grantaire. There is no visible difference between colours once they’ve been converted to grey scale – there’s no such thing as a green grey, or a blue grey. They’re just grey. And even if you have a good memory,” he added as Grantaire opened his mouth to argue, “there’s no way your brain can distinguish between such subtle differences in shades _and_ remember them all. It’s November, there hasn’t been a cloudless sky for weeks.”

“So what, you’re saying I’m lying?

“No. I’m saying-“

“Just because I can see things differently doesn’t mean-“

“Grantaire.” Enjolras’ eyes were very silver, and his hand was like marble on the back of Courfeyrac’s chair. Grantaire looked up at him a little reluctantly, gaze shadowed defensively. “Society is often desperate to enforce a binary mentality,” he told him, in the same way another man might say _it’s alright, you’re safe_. “Just because Combeferre says you’re not unbonded, doesn’t mean you are therefore bonded and lying. Perhaps you just perceive differently, like Marius and Cosette.”

Marius and Cosette were soulmates, but they could only see in blues and greens – Grantaire had started wondering why Enjolras was actually defending him, but it made more sense now his sister had been mentioned. Enjolras straightened up when Grantaire didn’t say anything and looked at Combeferre.

“Maybe you could ask one of your professors about it, ‘Ferre.”

He nodded. “I’d be interested in doing so, if that’s alright with you, Grantaire?” Ever professional, ever perfectly in tune with Enjolras. The jealousy Grantaire felt was entirely familiar and he just shrugged, leaning back in his chair again and obviously shutting down from the conversation. Courfeyrac’s mouth twisted a little unhappily and Enjolras suppressed a sigh, watching the artist look out the window as the previous discussions slowly started up again around them. His hair was an inky mess and his eyes were pale – he couldn’t liken them to anything, not to leaves, chocolate, the sky…

Enjolras felt a surprising jab of envy, and even as he turned back to Jehan to continue their previous conversation, he couldn’t help wishing for the hundredth time that he was bonded. It had to be wonderful.

*

Combeferre did ask one of his professors – Professor Chen Lin, chromapsychology – and she’d pursed her lips in thought. Asked a lot of questions to isolate exactly what he meant. Combeferre appreciated Professor Lin. But even if he appreciated the quickness of her mind and would have usually trusted her expertise entirely, what she told him twisted his gut – and he doubted her immediately.

When he got home, dripping from an unexpected downpour and spying his umbrella innocently dry in the hall where he’d forgotten it, he snapped at Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac pulled his head back a little in surprise, standing in his slippers with his hands around a cup of hot chocolate in the bedroom doorway. Then he’d simply read him, with a gentle, unobtrusive gaze that was used to unhappy people, and said:

“Will you tell Grantaire?”

It was a remarkable thing, really how he could know the depth of what someone was feeling without having to dive in, and Combeferre immediately softened again, tall frame sagging a little as he sighed and pulled off his coat, unwinding his scarf from his neck and hanging them both on the back of the door.

“I can’t, _chéri_ ,” he murmured, his accent relaxing into the words and drawing Courfeyrac closer to offer a sip from his mug. He accepted, rain-streaked glasses steaming up a little, and dropped his satchel in the corner.

It wouldn’t be until later, with Courfeyrac’s head in his lap as they absent-mindedly watched _Elementary_ , that Combeferre would bring it up again. It was dark outside.

“She said that he’d missed them.”

Courfeyrac turned his head to look up at him. “Your professor?”

He nodded, then clarified – he was never one for ambiguity. “She said it was possible Grantaire had missed bonding. That he’d come close to his soulmate but then they’d… gone again. Never touched.” His stomach tightened just saying it. It was unlike him, but there was something about the idea that disturbed Combeferre.

“But soulmates always come together, if they’re...” Courfeyrac stopped.

“If they’re alive,” Combeferre finished. Courfeyrac stared at him for a moment, then he gripped his hand very tight.

“What?” he whispered.

“I don’t know, Courf, I really don’t.”

“He can’t…” Courfeyrac was suddenly feeling tearful, because he felt everything intensely and he loved Grantaire a lot. “He can’t have nobody, ‘Ferre, he’s already so…” _Lonely_. So lonely it rolled off him like cold waves.

“I don’t agree with Professor Lin,” he told him, squeezing his hand back and looking down at him. “What she says doesn’t justify what he seems to experience, in my opinion.”

“Really?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“But she’s an expert too...” he murmured, and Combeferre smiled a little at the ‘too’.

“If experts knew everything, there would be no point in research, hm?”

Courfeyrac thought about that for a moment. Then his brow furrowed as he thought about Grantaire again, and Combeferre sighed. 

“I know, Courf,” he said, moving a thumb gently across his knuckles. “It doesn’t make me feel any better either.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back friends! hope you enjoy.
> 
> trigger warnings:  
> brief disability-driven angst  
> short description of an accident - more detail in the end note, but be aware, spoilers.

It starts to snow on December 5th.

“Put these on, Jehan.”

“’Taire, I really don’t need-“

“Nope, you have tiny bird hands that need protection.” Grantaire tugged each of his gloves over Jehan’s long, trembling fingers decisively, albeit careful where needed. The artist’s newly exposed hands were blotched with the familiar ink stains and paint, the forefinger of his left deliberately painted a dark shade because he was curious about the contrast, and his gloves were far too big for his friend. Warm though, Jehan had to admit.

“I like what you’ve done to your hair,” Grantaire noted as he began removing his jacket as well – Jehan had one on but they were very thin, and New York winters didn’t treat them kindly when they were already stiff and slow-moving.

“Don’t distract me with compliments just so you can give me clothes,” they muttered without heat, painted lips in a reluctant moue as the warmth of Grantaire’s jacket enveloped them. The inside was fleecy and there was a hood - it smelt comfortingly of Grantaire and a little of cigarettes. Despite themself, Jehan eventually murmured: “What colour did it come out?”

“Your hair?” Grantaire smiled at the highlighted fringe. “Light blonde.”

“What’s it like?” they asked, thanking him when he did the zip for them, seeing as their left hand had returned to resting snug against their side.

Grantaire thought for a moment. “Sunshine, maybe. The bits of Enjolras’ hair that get bleached in summer.”

Enjolras looked up. He’d been leaning against the front of Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s building quietly submerged in his own thoughts, waiting like the other two. Grantaire grinned at him, at the worn converse that matched his jacket the shade of the third French stripe, and Enjolras frowned.

“Grantaire, you can’t go out in this weather like that.”

Grantaire looked down at his t-shirt, bare arms braced only slightly against the biting chill and snowflakes settling in his hair. Then he just shrugged, the snake around his left arm dark against his grey skin, and grinned. “Anything for activism, Apollo.”

The t-shirt read, quite simply: FREE MARRIAGE FOR THE UNBONDED, white letters on black.

“Isn’t that Bahorel’s?” Jehan noted.

“Wait here, I have something you can borrow,” Enjolras said then, sighing and pushing off the wall. He somehow managed to make even his _walk_ look exasperated.

“Um-“ Grantaire managed expertly as he climbed the stairs to the front door and conjured a key, because _what?_

“He keeps a few things at their place, in case they work all night,” Jehan said, smiling knowingly from under Grantaire’s hood. Grantaire glanced at them, and their smile split into a grin as the front door opened and shut. “Wonder if it will smell like him.”

“Okay, you can fuck off.”

Jehan laughed. “You were thinking it.”

“I wasn’t, you traitor.”

“I’m a cute traitor,” they admitted, shrugging. Grantaire couldn’t help smiling, and they fell into companionable silence. Well, relative silence on the city’s streets – the rush of cars passing through forming slush and the footfalls of the passing people were a familiar background, and the more distant horns alluded to the gridlocked centre at rush hour. Grantaire was just glancing at the clock on his phone when the building’s door opened again.

“Sorry, sorry!” Courfeyrac tumbled out onto the sidewalk in a pale beanie with a matching scarf around his neck, layered in one giant coat and quickly embracing both of them. “I couldn’t find my scarf,” he said in explanation, giving Jehan an extra long hug and a _yay!_ because he hadn’t seen them in a while.

“It’s so cute,” Jehan said over his shoulder – they were almost of a height, Jehan slightly taller.

“Morning,” Combeferre greeted, sounding a little disgruntled as he nodded at them both, chin tucked into the upturned collar of his long coat. He hated cold weather.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras hold out an oversized hoodie to him and Grantaire didn’t look at Jehan as he accepted it.

“Thanks, E.”

“I don’t have anything more waterproof on this side of town,” he said as Grantaire unpocketed his hands to slip it on. “But as you say, anything for activism. Does it fit?”

This one said CAPITALISM IS POVERTY across the back. He was never, ever going to look at Jehan at again, because _maybe_ it smelt of Enjolras and _maybe_ it was the most comfortable thing he’d ever worn, heart picking up a little. “Yeah, it’s cool. Thanks again,” he said, shooting him a smile and pulling up the black hood over his head. Enjolras’ expression shifted momentarily as he looked at him, and Grantaire couldn’t read what it meant. Then for some reason they both blushed, and quickly looked away.

“Ready to go?” Courfeyrac chirped, having finished tidying Combeferre’s scarf while Combeferre let him, and they all nodded. Combeferre and Enjolras, walking in front with Combeferre holding Courfeyrac’s hand, needed to buy suits for interviews, and Combeferre had invited Grantaire and Jehan along. Marius and Cosette were having an early Christmas in D.C., and for some reason that Grantaire didn’t know or really care about, Combeferre had been asking him to join them more often.

“Want to get a taxi?” Grantaire murmured to his roommate as he offered them his arm. Jehan smiled but shook their head, cane clicking on the sidewalk as they leant against his weight, hand in the crook of his elbow.

“No, it’s alright.” They turned their face up to the white sky, lips curving up when the snowflakes landed on their skin. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Grantaire looked up too, and watched the grey specks against the blank canvas. The buildings loomed, seemed to lean in, and usually he found it oppressive. Grantaire wasn’t a New Yorker, not really, even though he’d been born here like the rest of them. It was too full of people, and busy places felt the most isolating.

But the flakes were starting to settle, smoothing out the shades of grey to a soft, cheerful white. And Enjolras, ahead of them, always had bright eyes when it was like this. A small, distracted smile,

“Yeah,” Grantaire murmured, letting his walk fall more into a stroll beside his friend. “Yeah, it’s beautiful Jehan.”

*

“Courfeyrac, really. Have I taught you nothing?”

Jehan, wearing six inch stilettos, was taller than Grantaire.

“It’s all about confidence,” they said with a wave of a hand, as if it was too obvious. “Observe.”

The shop assistant restocking the shelves nearby watched with unabashed awe as Jehan proceeded to walk from one side of the department to the other with a perfectly balanced, honest-to-god strut. It was quite something.

“You need to get those,” Grantaire said from the chair he was lounging in, very out of place in this department store and looking very unfazed by it. “They look great.”

Courfeyrac was bug eyed and humming in agreement from where he sat cross-legged in a pile of discarded slippers. But Jehan just smiled and came over to perch on Grantaire’s knee so they could slip them off, one of their hands braced on Grantaire’s shoulder for balance. “They’re two hundred dollars,” they said lightly, as if there wasn’t a familiar tightness in their chest - because they knew they’d never wear anything like this; they already knew those few seconds would hurt tonight, and all the practise in the world wouldn’t make it better. But their face showed nothing of it, because they _had_ practised that. “I could dye my hair a ton of times for that.”

“Who has two hundred frickin’ dollars for something you’re only gonna wear once?” Grantaire said, pulling a face, and Courfeyrac laughed.

“You sound like Enjolras.”

“You insult me, Courf.”

“We can hear you, you know,” came Combeferre’s voice, floating out from the changing room beside the shoe department.

“Are you not done yet?” Jehan called. “We’re waiting for the fashion show.”

Grantaire thought he heard Enjolras mutter something and he laughed, arm round Jehan’s waist. “Come on Apollo, you’ll make Jehan upset.”

“I’m a sensitive person!” Jehan added pointedly. Combeferre chuckled, then there was the click of a door unlocking and the tap of suit shoes on lino as Combeferre emerged onto the shop floor. He raised his eyebrows in question as he spread his arms a little, and Grantaire whistled. Courfeyrac made a noise like he’d just been sat on.

“Damn, ‘Ferre,” Jehan said.

“It’s alright, you think?” he asked without a touch of self-consciousness, the dark shade shirt, black tie and black jacket fitting him perfectly above black slacks.

“Green’s gorgeous on you,” Courfeyrac said, sounding slightly dazed. Combeferre smiled at him, and it was then, as he pushed up his glasses, that a flicker of something more bashful crossed his face.

“Good. Good, alright then.” He smiled again, this time more to himself, then headed back into the changing room. Courfeyrac watched him go, and Jehan, who had moved to murmur in Grantaire’s ear, said quietly:

“Soulmates, eh?”

Grantaire grinned and said nothing, shifting Jehan’s weight so they were more comfortably in his lap. Then another door opened, and a moment later Enjolras stepped out – a fraction hesitant before he visibly spurred himself, adjusting his cuffs neatly.

Grantaire’s smile fell away.

“Wow, E,” Courfeyrac said, and Jehan echoed the sentiment with an “Ooh, perfect.”

Enjolras’ slacks and jacket weren’t black and his shirt was white. His tie was red, Grantaire could identify the shade on his now without thinking, and he wore a waistcoat too. Blue, he remembered after a great effort. Blue like the deep sea.

“Do the colours go together alright?” Enjolras asked Courfeyrac as the only bonded one there, and he looked very stern. Self-conscious, Grantaire realised, his arm tightening around Jehan.

“Yeah, it’s gorgeous,” Courfeyrac grinned. “Can’t go wrong with red, white and blue.”

Enjolras nodded, glancing at Jehan for a second reassurance, and they nodded too. Then he and Grantaire looked at each other and Grantaire made himself open his mouth.

“You look really great,” he said, a little quickly. Enjolras nodded, slower this time. Then he turned as if to go back into the changing room, but paused. Looked back at Grantaire, sidelong.

“Are you sure? You don’t seem..”

“No, seriously.”

“Because you can tell me if-“

“No it’s hot, trust me.”

They looked at each other. Grantaire immediately realised what he’d said and felt his face heat up, Enjolras blinking.

“Oh,” the blonde said, and Grantaire felt Jehan start vibrating with suppressed laughter against him. “Well... thank you then.”

Grantaire could only nod, a mortified daze, and Enjolras returned to the changing room with uncertain, almost thoughtful steps. When they heard the door to his cubicle lock again, Courfeyrac nearly choked and Jehan buried their face in Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Oh my darling,” they murmured, shoulders shaking with laughter and rather ruining the sympathy. “My poor summer child.”

“Thanks Jehan,” Grantaire muttered, the grey of his blush covering his whole face.

“You are so welcome,” they simpered, arms looping round his neck like they were going to start crying with it. Courfeyrac, of course, was equally unhelpful, grinning like the Cheshire Cat in knitwear. _What did he do to deserve this?_ Grantaire thought, patting Jehan on the back as sarcastically as he could and trying not to ruin it by smiling.

*

“We have a flawed mentality. All of us do; we’re taught to have it. We have to have the final product, the most recent update, the very best thing. If we don’t or can’t, if we’re too poor or too sick or if we simply don’t want it, then something is deducted from our value. And that’s the real crime – the very idea that one person can be more valuable than another, and that we don’t all have inalienable, equal worth. ‘Net worth’, they call it. A person’s net worth. And what’s more, this value isn’t even determined by a meritocracy of character, it’s determined by _consumption._ By the dynamics of the free market. And because we are taught always to compete, we must consume, otherwise how else will we be the best? How else will we justify our existence to ourselves if not through the material? It’s a fine money maker, when you have the monopoly on people’s self-worth.”

Enjolras’ eyes were silver glass, totally unclouded. His gaze, although raised to the middle horizon as they walked, was seeing more than the greyscale of the sidewalk, people and traffic – his brow was furrowed, bringing something strong to the planes of his face, and his shoulders were squared with certainty. _Justice_ , Grantaire thought. _That’s what it was, that lit his eyes like that_.

“And it corrupts, Grantaire. There’s that temptation, when you have so much power over others, to keep them just that little bit away from happiness. Keep them needing you, feeding the machine. It’s necessary too, because the man that doesn’t need you kills you.”

“That explains the death threats,” Grantaire murmured, the humour automatic even though his thoughts were quiet. Surprisingly, it won a small smile from the man beside him, and as he buried his hands deeper in the pockets of that old jacket, shopping bag on his arm, he replied:

“You are needed, Grantaire.” He met his gaze. “Even if it is only as Jehan’s wardrobe.”

The reflex to laugh rose, but Enjolras didn’t really tell jokes so Grantaire didn’t know what to do with it. Instead he kind of huffed in surprise.

“What?” Enjolras asked, glancing sidelong at him.

“You just told a joke.”

He raised an eyebrow, and something close to amusement crossed his face at the familiar teasing that was bound to come. “I tell jokes,” he returned, finding himself welcoming it for some reason.

“No, you satirise. Your idea of a joke is capitalism.”

To Grantaire’s amazement, that did make Enjolras’ smile twist wider. “Capitalism is a joke.”

“Unbelievable.”

Then Courfeyrac’s voice reached them from where the other three were strolling behind them, and when Grantaire glanced round to look he saw him pretending to whisper to Combeferre: “Look, they’re actually _not arguing_.” Combeferre smiled, raising his eyebrows at the two of them.

“I had noticed.”

Enjolras and Grantaire looked at each other, and although Grantaire did feel the tell-tale embarrassment rise, neither of them seemed particularly mortified this time.

“Wow,” he said lightly, and Enjolras smirked, a kind of ‘indeed’, before murmuring with a pointed glance at Grantaire’s clothes: “Maybe it’s the activism.”

That was what made Grantaire laugh, and that kept Enjolras’ eyes on him as they stepped off the sidewalk. It wasn’t a coincidence that he would be so distracted, blinking, by the sound – the way his eyes brightened – at exactly the moment the taxi blared its horn.

Combeferre barely managed a shout.

Enjolras was jerked backwards, a hand in his, a screech of tyres, and _Grantaire couldn’t see_. Blinding, everything suddenly burning and glaring in his eyes until he stumbled, let go of the hand he’d grabbed and met the bonnet with a thud and a BANG as his head hit the windscreen.

Then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading lovelies!!  
> as always, kudos and comments make me smile. \\(O.O*)/
> 
>  
> 
> tw: accident: description in the last few paragraphs of the chapter of one of the characters being hit by a car and immediately being knocked unconscious. no blood mentioned, but the physical impact is described.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Uni is a bit hectic at the moment, but thanks for sticking with it friends! ^-^  
> Enjoy!
> 
> trigger warnings: brief injury mentions at the start, blood mentions, panic mention.

“Suspected broken ribs, head trauma-“

“He’s losing a lot of blood doctor-“

“ _Grantaire-_ “

“Can someone get that young man out of here please? Nurse, Theatre A immediately, set up for a transfusion, type… A. Type A negative.”

 

*

“Joly? Oh Joly, it’s good to see you.”

“I came as soon as I heard they’d brought him in. Let me see his notes.”

 

*

“Enjolras... You should sleep.”

 

*

The sunlight is muted. There’s something heavy over Grantaire’s eyes. He inhales slowly, and winces as his side burns hot. His head feels as though it’s in a vice, pulsing angrily along to the soft beep, beep, beep of a machine. It smells of hand sanitiser, and there’s a hand on his arm.

“Grantaire.”

Grantaire felt as though he should panic at the grey blindness that he couldn’t open his eyes against, but his body was very heavy. Utterly exhausted.

“Wha…” His lips were cracked and thick-feeling, his throat like sandpaper.

“Grantaire, it’s Joly.”

He frowned into the greyness, recognising the soft voice.

“Joly?”

There was the sound of sliding sheets, and he felt them being brought up around him a little more.

“You’re in the hospital, ‘Taire. There was an accident.” Joly’s hand was a careful, grounding weight. “Do you remember?”

_You are needed, Grantaire._

A sudden fear bolted through him an Grantaire was trying to sit up in an instant, letting out a choke of “Enjolras-“ before the pain collapsed him back into the bed, the rustle of movement and quick feet surrounding him as he almost sobbed at the burn.

“He’s alright, ‘Taire, everyone’s alright-”

“I’m here, Grantaire.”

The words were like cold water.

Grantaire sucked in a breath, felt the complaints of his torso slowly lessen to only deep aches, no sparks now that he was still again, and the need to see hit him with his relief.

“Joly, I can’t see anything,” he murmured raspingly, awareness on the space to his right where Enjolras’ voice had come from, and the fingers of his right hand flexing in the echo of a reach out. His left, he felt, was in a cast, suspended. There was a small pause. Then Joly’s even, trained voice.

“We’ve covered your eyes, Grantaire.”

“My… what?”

“We’ve covered your eyes, and when you’re feeling a little better we’ll uncover them, alright?”

A little fear fluttered in Grantaire’s chest.

“Why?” he said, and when his voice came out small he cleared his parched throat. He really wished Enjolras would take his hand, his arm, anything to confirm his presence. It was alarming, actually, how badly he wanted it. “Why, is there something wrong?” And then, a startled afterthought: “Is it just you two in here?”

“Yes, ‘Taire, it’s just us at the moment, and you’re in a private room.”

He shouldn’t resent Joly’s voice just because it wasn’t Enjolras’, but he was starting to nonetheless. Why wouldn’t the other man say anything?

“But in answer to your other question...” Joly continued hesitantly, and Grantaire could practically feel them look at each other. His heart started beating faster – he could hear it on the machine.

“What Joly, for god’s-“

“I can see colour, Grantaire,” Enjolras said. Joly gave a short inhale, a sign of nerves, and Grantaire just… lay there. Felt slowly, slowly, the great tide of heartbreak threaten to rise.

“You…” he swallowed, and was betrayed by the way the heart monitor chirped slower again. “You found your soulmate?”

“I did,” Enjolras murmured, and of course his voice was a low, beautiful tone now that Grantaire knew he wasn’t his, had it confirmed despite knowing all along. But he had to ask anyway. “Who?”

The silence that followed made him feel claustrophobic, and his mind was forced to wonder over the possibilities. It would have to be someone extraordinary, surely, if they had something of Enjolras in them. He wondered how long he’d been under, if Enjolras had met them in that time. Had it been a surprise? A brush of fingers around a coffee cup, like Marius and Cosette? Or worse, a deliberate request for contact that Grantaire himself had never received.

_You’ve never touched, not for 6 years. He’s never wanted to be anywhere near-_

“Grantaire..” Enjolras sounded a little off, suddenly. “Don’t.. don’t you understand?” Grantaire heard his shoes creak, as if he’d stepped closer. Then he continued, softly. “The reason your eyes are covered is because- because it’s you. We bonded when you… saved me.”

And with that, Grantaire’s mind went blank. After what had to be a long time, judging by the way Joly started to shift beside him and gently squeeze his arm, as if fearing he’d passed out, he heard himself say: “That can’t be.”

Enjolras tried a laugh, and the depth of his own emotion very briefly showed itself, in the way he couldn’t quite pull it off. “That,” he began quietly, “was my reaction.”

It was probably hypocritical that the words hurt. Grantaire filed it away.

“I want to take the blindfold off.” And when the next pause came, he added, irritated: “And can you stop looking at each other like that? It’s not like I’m going to have a breakdown over here.”

“Sorry, ‘Taire,” Joly said quietly, before giving a kind of thoughtful exhale as he no doubt thought about the chances of exactly that. Grantaire grit his teeth, made himself not say more. He still wasn’t too proud of snapping at Combeferre, what, weeks ago now? Short fuse.

“Alright,” Joly said at last. ”But I want you to try and stay as relaxed as possible, okay? Everyone’s bond is different. Things are going to seem…”

Grantaire suddenly felt cool fingers at his temples, and he tried to stifle a sudden flare of anxiety. “Wait-“ he said before he could stop himself. Joly stopped obediently, and the heart monitor beeped knowingly behind them. He swallowed. “Can… can it just be Enjolras?” He almost _felt_ Enjolras’ surprise, and could have laughed, if he’d felt like it – was that a soulmate thing, or the morphine? Was he now some kind of low-budget psychic?

“Of course,” Joly then said, and there was a shuffle of feet. “I’ll be just outside.”

“Thanks Joly,” Grantaire blurted with a twist of guilt, and their friend left with the assurance that it was perfectly understandable. Understandable, Grantaire thought as he heard the door open and shut, that he’d want to be with his soulmate.

His- his soulmate.

“You… can sit, E, if you want.”

Enjolras cleared his throat, then there was a brief scrape of a chair being drawn up across the hard floor. He didn’t sit on the bed. Then, after a pause that should have felt awkward but didn’t for some reason, Enjolras spoke.

“It’s... very different, Grantaire. Colour, that is. I want you to know that any reaction you have is acceptable, and you shouldn’t feel embarrassed.”

Grantaire tried a smirk, and it was as forced as his tone as he replied: “What did you do, shit yourself?”

“I cried,” Enjolras said, “quite a lot. But then again, we were waiting for an ambulance and weren’t sure if you’d die, so.”

So stop being a jerk.

Grantaire winced and felt guilty again.

“Can I…” he began, and instead of saying the apology out loud he turned over his undamaged right hand. Selfish, he supposed, but when Enjolras took it obediently, his fingers dry and warmer than Joly’s, he was glad. It was the same hand he’d grabbed, the only parts of them that had touched.

“So, what is it like?” Grantaire braved eventually. Considering everyone’s whole lives were supposed to revolve around bonding (god knows the poets had nothing better to write about, and the pop songs didn’t even try), Grantaire hadn’t thought about his own much. It was hard to miss something you’d never had, and that no one could really explain to you. That was what he told people, anyway.

“For me,” Enjolras murmured, and his voice had gone quiet again. It was very soothing, for someone that could be so dangerous. “It was a subtle bond. Have you heard about ‘Ferre and Courf’s?”

Grantaire smiled. “Who hasn’t?”

Enjolras did too. “Good point. Well, mine was similar to that.” Then he hesitated, and Grantaire felt his gaze on his face. Although the thought of the blindfold rose again, it was muted this time by the weight of what was behind it. Grantaire was starting, actually, to not want it removed at all.

“The first things I saw,” Enjolras said, “were the colours of your eyes, and the blood on your forehead.”

Grantaire inhaled. “Oh,” he whispered. “Man.”

“Hmm.” The bed pressed down a little as Enjolras rested an arm on the mattress.

“That must have been shit.”

A small huff, the kind of amusement that came from looking back on something that wasn’t funny at all. “Yes, well. Your eyes are lovely, if it helps.”

Grantaire didn’t know what to say to that, so he said:

“They’re darker than yours,” as if there was any comparison between silver and tin.

“They’re blue,” Enjolras replied, and he said the word with a curious delicacy, as if he was unsure whether he had the right to. “And I’ve been told that mine are, as well. You’ll like them, I think.” Then he added, with a hint of embarrassment: “Yours, I mean.”

That was when Grantaire decided. He reached the kind of resigned determination that he applied to doing all things that would probably hurt him.

“Will you take the blindfold off? I… haven’t got any hands.” _Don’t let go._

Enjolras understood, and with a creak of the plastic cushion on his chair, he leaned forward, their right hands remaining clasped between them on the sheets. Them, gently, slowly, the grey weight across Grantaire’s eyes was pulled away, up onto his forehead.

 

*

 

Cossette and Enjolras were given their father’s features, much to Enjolras’ annoyance. He’d rather have had the dark, honest eyes of his mother, and her wide, hard-working palms, rather than the musician’s hands and Hellenic bones that had caused Fantine so much trouble in the first place. He had her temperament though, apparently – both the children did. Their father had never fought for anything, never committed to anything, their newly pregnant mother included. But Fantine had been strong, strong as the both of them, and Enjolras could see it in his sister’s face now. She was turned toward him, he slim hand lying protectively on his chest as her eyes watched what Enjolras could not. She was still dressed for travel, her grey (soon red) coat wet from outside’s blizzard and her handbag strapped across her body. Her brow was slightly furrowed, her lips a flat line, as she looked into Grantaire’s room.

They were still calming him down.

Combeferre stood a little way across the hall, tall and somewhat menacing in his concern as he spoke to the doctor in low tones, and Enjolras was grateful for the grounding weight just below his collar bone because for once, his friend was not a comfort. His sister seemed to know that.

“Come on,” she murmured, and she took his hand with a small gesture to Combeferre. He looked up as the two blondes came away from the wall, and the heavy look of worry he gave Enjolras made Enjolras feel sick. Because this wasn’t normal.

He followed Cosette without a word, and she asked a nurse where the canteen was when they reached the elevator lobby. The nurse looked at the twins with an expression of sympathy, one glance at Enjolras’ pale, silent face screaming ‘family bereavement’, and she asked, once she’d given them directions, if they’d like her to show them the way. But Cosette smiled and shook her head, thanking her anyway.

 _Poor boy_ , the nurse thought as she watched the pair walk down the hall, both of them strikingly statuesque even in their thinness. _They must have been close._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! Kudos/comments really make my day (^-^*)
> 
> (whispers: strong!cosette is my life. up next are sibling fights, grantaire's mind, and memories.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back everyone :)
> 
> tw: anxiety/panic, misgendering.

“Right. I think the guy put too much sugar in your one, but knowing you it doesn’t matter. They had cheesecake too, look.”

Cosette set the two takeaway cups down, their little table in the far corner furthest from the noisy centre, and passed Enjolras the plate she’d balanced on top. He thanked her quietly and picked up his fork.

“To be honest, I think it was his weird way of flirting with me,” she continued, shrugging and bringing the coffee to her lips as she sat down, hanging her bag on the back of the chair. Enjolras raised an eyebrow, glancing toward the counter. “Don’t worry,” she said, smiling. “I don’t need two baristas in my life.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to reply with something light, _brave for Cosette, brave for Cosette_ , but when he looked back at his sister his breath caught.

She paused, drink hovering at her lips. “What?”

Then he relaxed, just a little. Pale, shining blue. He smiled a little. “I can see your eyes.”

When she understood her mouth formed a soft ‘o’. “You can?” she whispered, and when he nodded her face broke into a grin – she covered her mouth with a hand and laughed gently, gazing at him as if he’d just said he was getting married. “Oh Enj.” She reached across and took his hand, and he swallowed as her eyes started watering, the feeling infectious.

“They’re the same as yours, you know,” she said, laughing again. “I may not see much colour but I’m good with blues. You’ll probably be able to see them soon too – similar shades don’t take long.”

“Really?” he murmured, trying, trying not to think about his conversation with Grantaire. Cosette nodded.

“Lots of things are blue. Hey, even this dress is blue!” she said, tugging at it excitedly.

 _I remember when you got into Harvard_.

“It’s kinda like our eyes except darker, can you see any of it yet?”

_Why does that feel so long ago?_

“Enjolras?”

He inhaled slightly, then looked. “Your dress?”

“Yeah, it’s blue, so you might be able to see it soon,” she repeated. “Can you?”

At the moment it was still grey. His sister’s eyes were like small beacons in the surrounding shades, like-

Like Grantaire’s had been, for a bleary, painful moment in the ambulance.

Enjolras picked up his coffee with his free hand and drank slowly, pushing the thought away.

“I thought soulmates experienced the same kind of bond,” he found himself saying after a few minutes. The coffee was too sweet, yes, but he hoped it would give him some of the energy that seemed to have left his body the moment Grantaire had shoved him away. His had still tingled.

Cosette’s eyes seemed more expressive in colour, somehow. “I thought so too, but...” She lifted her shoulders. “Grantaire likes to buck the trend. Weren’t you telling me a while back that he was already pretty colour receptive? Maybe he’s just… different.”

Enjolras nodded. She studied her brother for a few moments in silence. His jaw was gently clenched, and he was torn between meeting her bright eyes and looking away to the safety of the grey canteen. She wished, with a brief, lancing sadness, that their mother was here. Jean was a good man and a good stepfather to them both, but… Cosette could feel herself moving into her mom’s shoes, trying to fill the space for Enjolras as if he was her kid brother and not the older one, as always, and she knew she wasn’t the same. Their mom could have shouldered the burden in a way Enjolras would never allow his sister to, and she could feel the wall he’d built up between them now.

Then her phone buzzed on the table and they both glanced at it.

“Sorry, it’s probably Marius,” she murmured, suddenly feeling flustered at the interruption even though neither of them had been speaking and picking up her phone to read the text.

“Oh.” Are you still with Enjolras? “It’s Combeferre.”

Enjolras’ expression flickered. “What’s he saying?” he asked.

_yeah hon we’re in the canteen. is R ok?_

“Just asking if you’re still with me, hang on,” she said quietly, engaging both thumbs to type quicker when her phone buzzed again.

The doctor wants to talk to E, can you guys come back please?

She pursed her lips. _sure 2 mins so he can finish his drink. any idea what about?_

“Cosette?” Enjolras murmured, and she looked up at him with a smile.

“He’s just worrying about you, it’s okay. Eat the cheesecake, I fought hard for it.”

Enjolras gave a kind of accommodating smile, as if acknowledging the distraction attempt, and started using the fork that he’d forgotten about. The next message came through a moment later.

They want to keep Grantaire in bc of his leg and the bond.

_his leg?_

He broke it in the accident.

Cosette hid her wince, and when she glanced at her brother inhaling the first thing he’d eaten all day (as she’d suspected), her thumbs hovered over the keys. Then she began again, slower.

_i’m worried about E, ferre._

She could imagine Combeferre pausing on the other side of the hospital.

Me too.

_what happened with R?_

There was a longer pause, and Cosette made herself have some coffee while she waited. Then:

Let the doctor explain, I think.

*

Grantaire was in shock. That sounded like a lame excuse for it, but that was what the doctor said, white moustache moving as he spoke, clipboard in hand outside Grantaire’s room. Enjolras couldn’t see Grantaire through the blinds they’d pulled down across the windows. Now that he was only a few feet behind the door, the voices of the nurses just audible as they spoke in low tones to him, he couldn’t stand being separated. That was normal, apparently, but it still made Enjolras’ skin itch. Twice he had to stop himself from just opening the door and walking in, and Combeferre had now placed himself very much in the way, arms folded.

“Mr Tholomyès?”

Enjolras realised he’d been staring at the door again and quickly looked round, used to responding to his father’s name even if he didn’t use it. The doctor frowned at him in a way that would have been disapproving if he wasn’t a medical professional – instead he just looked mildly concerned.

“As I was saying,” he said, as Enjolras felt Cosette take his hand. “Grantaire experienced a full spectrum bond – that is, he is able to view all colour – and has been able to since your first touch, judging by his brain activity. Have you experienced a similar bond?”

Enjolras swallowed. “No sir.” He couldn’t remember his name, and realised suddenly that Joly was nowhere to be seen. “Mine’s gradual.”

The doctor nodded, then looked at Cosette with a pen conjured from his pocket. “And are you bonded, Miss?”

When Cosette explained, he gave a hesitant nod and jotted something down. “Well,” he then said, “I’d like to run a few test with you... Enjolras, is it? Standard procedure when one bond partner has a more traumatic-“ Enjolras’ stomach dropped, “experience of bonding. Combeferre here has explained to me some of the irregularities that Grantaire was experiencing pre-bond, and while it sounds like an unusual case, I’m confident that Chromapsychology will be able to help your soulmate adjust.” The doctor gave a professional smile, and Enjolras felt a twist of irritation at Combeferre for some reason. “Meanwhile,” the doctor continued, turning his clipboard round to Enjolras, “I need your permission to keep Grantaire in for tests.”

Enjolras faltered. Then he felt something rise up, simmering. “What?”

The doctor hesitated. “As Grantaire’s soulmate, I need your permission before I can-“

“Bonding doesn’t remove Grantaire’s ability to consent,” Enjolras murmured, and then Combeferre was stepping in, sensing some kind of alarm had been tripped that didn’t ring often.

“Enjolras, Doctor Peterson isn’t the system,” he said lowly, and he sounded _tired_ , as if this was his soulmate who’d been hit by a car, as if it was him that had been at Grantaire’s bedside for three straight days, as if he was the one that had the right to talk about Grantaire’s ‘ _irregularities_ ’-

“I won’t sign the form because Grantaire has his autonomy and can consent to his own procedures,” Enjolras practically hissed, alarming the doctor visibly and making his sister whisper out a scold.

“What?” Enjolras demanded. “How dare he-“

“ _Sign the form before Grantaire has another damn breakdown, Enjolras,_” Combeferre said, a bite in his accent, and the words made Enjolras turn on him so suddenly Combeferre squared to his full height reflexively.

“Order me again,” he spat, but the other man didn’t even get the chance to open his mouth because then Cosette was grabbing Enjolras’ arm hard enough to bruise.

“No, Enjolras,” she commanded, her eyes blazing, “You will _not_ do this.”

He glared at her but she only flared brighter, teeth gritting.

“Grantaire needs this doctor’s help and you need Combeferre’s, you will _not_ start fighting and you will _certainly_ not hit him, how dare _you_.”

“I refuse to-“

“You _will_ sign it.”

“Cosette!”

“You w _ill_ Enjolras!”

The urge to lash out was thudding in his ears and he couldn’t unclench his fists. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t _just_ , he _knew_ he was right. Cosette was looking at him unwaveringly, but something was coming into her eyes at the same time as it was coming into his own, something imploring.

“He needs tests, Enjolras. He needs medicine.”

“He’s not sick.”

“We don’t know that. We won’t know that, unless you let them help him.”

“But he’s perfectly capable of-”

“He’s not, Enjolras.” She swallowed. “He’s not capable, okay?”

He looked at her, and she was almost grimacing. She exhaled.

“The doctors are asking you because… because they _can’t_ ask him. Do you…” She relaxed her grip on his arm. “Do you understand?”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it, and looked at the doctor.

“I’m afraid your sister is correct, Enjolras,” he said, after a moment. “While we are legally required to ask for the soulmate’s permission of a bonded patient before we can keep them in hospital, we also have to request the permission of the patient themselves. In this case I’ve made the decision that Grantaire is not able to give his consent on account of his state of mind, and I can therefore take your permission as sufficient.”

“The Representation Act,” Enjolras murmured, quietly.

If the doctor was surprised, he didn’t let it show. “Yes. And so, I rely entirely on your permission in order to proceed.”

“My permission should never have come into it.” He looked at his sister. “Partially or fully. It should never have been allowed to be that way.”

She nodded, and dropped her hand down to hold his. She’d been at the protests too.

Enjolras exhaled, not noticing when his fists had unclenched. He reached out for the clipboard and took it when it was handed over. The pen scratched as he wrote, but otherwise all four of them were silent for a moment. Then:

“Thank you,” the doctor murmured. “If you’ll come with me, Enjolras, I’ll get you checked in. Visiting hours,” he added to the other two, “are nearly over I’m afraid. Enjolras will be staying overnight.”

“We can’t afford the-“ Enjolras began, but Cosette interrupted.

“Jean will cover it, Enj, I’ll call him when I get back to Marius’s.”

He must have looked reluctant, because she squeezed his hand and smiled. “He’ll want to, don’t worry. You know what he’s like.”

He did.

“Alright,” he conceded, and he squeezed her hand back, tiredness creeping back onto his face. When Cosette hugged him, Enjolras felt some his tension fall away, her arms wiry around his neck, and for a moment he let his eyes close. She smelt of perfume and home, a juxtaposition of child and adulthood that he was struggling to reconcile.

“I’ll come pick you up,” she said as she pulled back, and he had to consciously not drift after the movement. “Just call, okay?”

He nodded a confirmation and left a brief kiss on her forehead in thanks. She smiled. Then he murmured a goodbye to Combeferre and followed Doctor Peterson down the hall, shoving his hands in the pockets of his old jacket.

*

The last nurse left with a soft pad of plimsolls. It was ten o’clock, and December-dark outside the single window. Machines beeped softly, and an occasional trolley rattled past in the hallway outside. The night staff talked quietly, presumably at some kind of main desk out there, and the city was a soft rush underneath it all. The lights were never completely off in Grantaire’s room, up lighting throwing a warm glow onto the wall opposite the white-barred bed, and Grantaire wasn’t sure if he was glad.

He stared at the ceiling quietly. Now that each of his injuries had been explained to him they seemed to be responding like it was a call to arms, all throbbing dully under the blanket of heavy painkillers. Broken leg, arm, two fingers and three ribs, all on the left side. One bitch of a concussion. An assortment of glass cuts and gravel rash, the most annoying of which meant stitches in his bottom lip. He was exhausted, but the kind of cold, unwelcoming exhaustion that came from the shock – not enough to pull him under, but enough to drain him.

He’d tried to close his eyes because he didn’t like looking at everything, but they wouldn’t stay shut. His gaze searched for the ugly bold things (flowers in a vase in the corner, the curtains open at the window) with a kind of morbid fascination, even though the glaring _not greys_ made his stomach turn.

Enjolras…

He’d heard them outside his door at some point, but he wasn’t sure how long ago – Grantaire had fallen into a dry unconsciousness that couldn’t be called sleep before the nurses had come back in, and it had made him lose track of time. Enjolras had been angry about signing the form that was no doubt to do with registering as his soulmate, he’d heard him shouting.

He didn’t want Enjolras to come back and see him.  He really didn’t.

…He didn’t think about it once.

Grantaire grimaced, and turned his head to stare at the flowers. His skull felt heavy as lead. They blooms were carnations (sketching from old field guides had taught him more than high school), long stemmed with single, feathery heads, and they weren’t bubble-gum white anymore. They were pink. The stems were green. Pink was a kind of bruised colour, green was aquatic and reminded Grantaire oddly of disease.

He managed a huff at his own melodrama, the movement crackling his side, but it was the same as always. His thoughts could be laughably bitter – he’d be the first to laugh – but only because it was easier than acknowledging the very real depth of his negativity. He could pretend it was satire, if he laughed – just Grantaire’s good old pessimism. Then it wasn’t the black dog that followed him around.

Jehan liked carnations.

Grantaire reflexively reached his good arm out for the table, but of course his cell phone wasn’t there. It probably broke in the accident, he realised with a wince, remembering with alarming clarity the momentum of the car, careening into his thigh. He hoped Jehan wasn’t worried about him. He wondered if there was any way he could borrow a phone in the morning, of if the others had already called them. Probably, knowing Combeferre – he’d probably set up a clarion call. Grantaire felt glad for the thousandth time that his parents lived in London – he could just imagine the pinched looks of disappointment that he’d ‘let this happen to himself’. ‘This’ was usually being drunk in a ditch, being pan ( _why_ had he come out to them, _why_ ) or being depressed, so he didn’t see why something like a car accident couldn’t be added to the list.

He just needed to snap out of it, Grantaire thought with a smirk that could melt concrete. Respect himself more.

*

That night he dreams of Enjolras, touching his face, palming at his jeans, making him gasp - and when he looks at him, Enjolras' eyes are silver.

*

“Grantaire,” Nurse Floréal says from the doorway to his room, hair tied back, brown, with eyes matching. Grantaire didn’t particularly understand brown yet – it ought to have been black, but something had gone wrong in manufacture. “You have a visitor.”

Two days have passed, and it’s morning. He’s had four sub-par meals on a tray, dozens of sessions with ‘specialists’ already, and two more panic attacks. They won’t be showing him anymore Picasso for a while. But Grantaire feels better suddenly, because he had a _visitor_ , and judging by the _shuff-click_ , _shuff-click_ of the footsteps he’d heard in the hall, he already knew exactly who it was and had the bed upright before Floréal had even opened the door.

“Hey gorgeous,” Jehan murmured when they stuck their head around the frame, with a small, tentative smile. Grantaire felt his chest swell.

“Jean Prouvaire, get your ass over here.”

Jehan laughed but it was tempered, deliberately soft and giving Grantaire pause. Jehan was used to hospitals, they didn’t usually feel uncomfortable. But then Grantaire realised why they were really hovering, and he felt an odd twinge of both regret and gratitude.

“You can come in, sib, just...” he sighed. He knew that the panics were involuntary, Jehan was right to be cautious. He made himself say: “Let me look at you first though, if that’s… if that’s okay.”

Jehan smiled at him, and obliged. They’d worn black, the complete and total shade that was featured in non-bonded fashion as ‘zero-gray’. Even Jehan’s arms were covered by a cardigan, and although Grantaire only found the Caucasian-yellowy-pink shade mildly disturbing (it wasn’t even a proper _colour_ ), he appreciated the gesture. He really appreciated the gesture.

“You’re good,” he murmured eventually, ushering him in with his undamaged hand, and with visible relief Jehan crossed to his bedside.

“I’ll just be outside, boys,” Nurse Floréal told them, smiling a little, and Grantaire was already picking her up on it before Jehan could even open their mouth.

“Those are the wrong pronouns for Jehan, Floréal,” he said, and he’d said it exactly the same way for the last three years, Jehan squeezing his hand. Floréal faltered, then blushed like a carnation.

“Oh gosh, I’m- I’m so sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Jehan smiled (“because you don’t have to say it’s okay, Jehan”), and started pulling over the plastic-cushioned chair on the right of the bed with their cane hand. To their surprise, though, Nurse Floréal didn’t proceed to hurry out. She clasped her small hands in front of her, eyes large with sudden concern, and said, waveringly:

“May I ask what pronouns you use, J-Jean?”

The grip on Grantaire’s hand tightened, but when he looked at them, Jehan’s expression was soft.

“It’s always okay to ask, honey,” they said. Then: “I use they/their.”

Floréal nodded. She swallowed. “I’m very sorry again,” she then murmured, and that was when she left, closing the door behind her quietly without another glance. Jehan looked at Grantaire.

“So that’s Floréal,” Grantaire said.

Jehan looked back at the door. “Huh.”

“Did you miss me then?”

His friend huffed out a laugh and met his gaze again – this time they were closer, looking up at him thanks to the height and angle of the electric bed, and in the snow-white light from the window, Grantaire really saw their face. He inhaled quietly.

“What is it?” Jehan murmured.

Then Grantaire grinned. “Just glad you don’t have purple eyes or something.” Their deep, dark gaze was the same, near enough – just as plummeting and soothing. He was relieved. Glancing at their highlighted fringe, the blonde, he wondered if Jehan would like it as much bonded as they did in shades. He had a hard time convincing himself it wasn’t a stale-looking thing now.

“I spoke to Enjolras yesterday,” Jehan then said, and Grantaire only realised it had been a long silence when their voice broke it. He breathed in and managed his best tone of indifference.

“Oh yeah?”

“Hm-hmm. Doctor said his tests came back okay, which is good news.”

Grantaire tried not to frown. “He had tests?”

Jehan moved their fringe out of their eyes with a few fingers. “Didn’t the doctors tell you? Oh, well yes, apparently it was standard procedure – they kept him in overnight.”

“He didn’t mention it,” he said, and his glance-away, glance-back was a classic tell to anyone that knew him well enough. _I’m going to pretend it doesn’t matter, even though it hurts._

“He hasn’t been allowed to visit, ‘Taire,” his friend murmured, propping their cane against the bed so they could prop up their chin in their hand, elbow on the edge of the mattress. They looked at him, quietly assessing. “The doctors didn’t want him to trigger you again.”

 _It wasn’t him that triggered me, it was the colours_ , Grantaire thought, but he didn’t say it because the nurses already thought he was crazy. Instead he fell back on the easy default, and muttered a doubtful: “Sure.”

“You don’t believe me?” Jehan asked, calm. He looked at them. Jehan dealt with so much shit, how were they always so steady?

“I believe that’s what Enjolras told you,” he said, then gave a shrug that he immediately paid for. “Besides,” he continued, wincing and rolling his good shoulder as if that would help the broken arm die down. “He’s still having a freak out of his own, probably.

Jehan didn’t sigh. Grantaire would have done, if he was on their end of his bullshit every day. Instead they just said: “Why’s that?”

“Because he’s got me as a metaphysical ball and chain.”

“Has he told you he’s unhappy about the bond?”

Grantaire scoffed. “Doesn’t have to – he’s been shouting at the doctors loud enough.” Then he remembered their first conversation and he scowled, the expression readily darkening his face. “And he said himself that he couldn’t believe it. Didn’t think it was possible.”

Jehan didn’t frown. “That doesn’t sound like he meant-“

“You weren’t there, Jehan!” he cried, then immediately dropped volume when he remembered Floréal outside. “The only time we talked about it properly it was just so he could go all social justice on me,” he hissed. “’Every reaction is acceptable’ and all that crap – I’m amazed he didn’t start lecturing me on the _stigmatisation of male emotions_.”

“Grantaire-“

“But the real shock is that I’m actually fucking surprised in the first place. I mean, please. _Me_ , Enjolras’ soulmate? Of course he’s gonna freak – try telling an eagle he’s going to be tied to a fucking _toad_ for the rest of his life. He was probably holding out for Che fucking Guevara’s long lost daughter or something, or fucking _Combeferre_ , god knows they’re-“

Jehan lay a hand on Grantaire’s arm. Grantaire stopped, staring at them for a wide-eyed moment before quickly looking away to the wall.

“Take a few breaths with me, ‘Taire,” they said gently.

Grantaire’s eyes started to sparkle.

“Breathe in.”

For a moment it looked like he might not comply. But then there was the soft quiver of his inhale, head still turned. Jehan swallowed while they were unobserved.

“And out,” they murmured. Grantaire breathed out. The exhale shook as well.

“And in.”

The surgeons had cleaned his hands of ink, presumably for hygiene reasons, and Jehan didn’t think they’d seen Grantaire’s hands as just plain grey skin for years. They looked smaller.

“And out.”

It wasn’t a done job – when Grantaire at last turned back to show his face his muted gaze was still downcast, a tear track left unwaveringly on his cheek. But he was quiet. Jehan had long since learnt that what Grantaire needed, first and foremost, was to have quiet. Step back, take stock. Self-preserve. Then he could be approached.

“We’re going to take this at your speed, ‘Taire,” Jehan smiled. “We’ve still got plenty of those crappy thrift shop tapes to watch anyway, when you get home.”

He huffed softly, and Jehan prodded the back of his hand as they added: “And besides, you needed an excuse to quit that job.”

“I can’t quit.”

“Pizza delivery with two broken limbs?” they replied, raising an eyebrow. “Good luck using the bike.”

Grantaire smiled too, lifting his eyes to theirs.

“You know my parents are dying to help us with the rent,” Jehan told him. “It saves me buying them a Christmas present.”

“You’re sure they can afford it? Just for a few weeks?”

“Of course,” Jehan grinned, cat-like. “They work for Combeferre’s dad, remember?”

Grantaire laughed, more like a huff-and-grin out of respect for his ribs. Then he murmured, leaning his head back into the pillows and wiping his face with their still-joined hands: “I knew there was a reason I liked Combeferre.”

Jehan laughed as well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back :)
> 
> tw: misgendering.

When Grantaire gets released from hospital (“It says here that a Mr Valjean will be covering your fees, sir”), there’s a cast around his shin and calf, white hard plaster. He’s on crutches, and Jehan notes that they make quite a team with three sticks between them. His arm, luckily, wasn’t as bad a break, more of a fracture, and although it burns when he uses it he can still use it. Joly stands with them, in his blue scrubs and probably freezing to death in the drizzling snow. Jehan is Grantaire’s shadow, as has become normal.

But stepping out of the hospital is difficult, and it’s got nothing to do with his leg, arm or ribs.

“Could be worse,” Grantaire said as he drummed his fingers on one of the grey crutch handles. His eyes are hidden by his heavy, dark shades. “We could live in the Amazon or something.”

They both knew what he meant, and they joined him in looking across the parking lot. New York winters weren’t famous for being brightly coloured: there were four ambulances parked nearby, and the red lettering was clear on their sides. The occasional omnipresent taxi rushed past on the wet road, and it was an alarming, bright yellow that made Grantaire avert his eyes each time. But otherwise it was a background of dreary grey and snowy white. Not much colour.

And yet, everything _felt_ different. The buildings facing the hospital should have been just plain grey – stone and dirty brick and concrete. But Grantaire felt as though if he stared at them too long he’d get sick, the slight drippings of colour in their surfaces like a kind of mould growing over the shades. He felt a bizarre urge to scrub at them, to bleach away the intrusive tinges that seemed to be permeating everything, taking away the uniformity and making everything mismatch like a badly cut jigsaw, bundled together and not quite fitting in his eyes.

He let himself be lead to the taxi, after five silent minutes of looking.

*

Marius and Cosette were mugged the following Thursday. They shouldn’t have been so far from their side of town so late, really, although they didn’t think fearing for their lives at the wrong end of a wicked looking blade was a deserved punishment. But they didn’t tell anyone. In fact, they didn’t even lose anything. Because when Marius took off his watch and Cosette her earrings, stuffing them with shaking hands into the dirty, outstretched one of their assailant, the ribbons in Cosette’s hair turned scarlet. Marius swore and Cosette yelped.

And Eponine stopped dead.

*

“Hey there, Mr Knoller! Haven’t seen you in a while?”

“Well you know me, Chetta. Can’t hold this old dog down.”

The soup smelt like coming home, this late on a Sunday night with December prowling the streets in full ferocity. The tables were almost full, hundreds of fingers starting to thaw, shivering starting to subside, the door opening to blow in still more shuffling feet. Musichetta wiped the back of a hand across her forehead and took a moment to pull her dreads into a bun, eyes skimming over the hall.

“Baby, I think we’re gonna need to move some tables,” she said, Bossuet washing up in the sink behind her. He looked up too, and would have tied his hair like Musichetta’s if he still had any.

“Jeez. It’s not even midnight.”

“Hmm.” She started dishing out again, soup and bright smiles.

“Let me just finish this one then I’ll get on it,” he murmured, squeezing past with a guiding hand on her waist to put a pan away. It was always busy nearer to Christmas – hell, it was always busy, period – and they were really starting to feel the strain on their capacity. It was both fitting and ironic that they used the old community centre. Fitting, because when Musichetta looked around she saw old and young laughing over food and stories. Ironic, because this was no damn substitute for a real community, and if they’d had one in the first place, they might never have needed a soup kitchen.

“Watch it, Chetta, your vigilante is showing.”

Musichetta started, realising she’d been glaring at the mid horizon and quickly following the voice. At the front of the queue, Eponine tipped his head up in greeting, bangs dusting round his eyes and hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket – fake leather and doing fuck all in this cold.

“Hey hon,” Musichetta smiled, shaking herself and holding up an empty bowl questioningly. Eponine shook his head and gestured at his kid brother with his chin, before glancing back across the hall, chewing stolen gum. Musichetta didn’t know if Gavroche had a different dad or something, but he sure as hell wasn’t Hispanic – she’d never asked, though, and she didn’t now.

“Saw you outside school last week, Gavroche,” she said conversationally as she ladled out soup, making sure to get vegetables from the bottom of the pot.

“Uh-huh,” Eponine said, because Gavroche didn’t speak much. “Got him into that new elementary.”

“Oh yeah?”

He nodded, and a wolfish grin cracked his face as he ruffled his brother’s blonde head. “Gonna be the next president, aren’t ya?”

Gavroche grinned and ducked out of his reach, but he didn’t stray far.

“That’s great, Ep.” Musichetta held out the bowl, two spoons in it just in case. “Make sure you’re looking after you, too.”

Eponine smirked with a nod that said ‘whatever’ as he handed the bowl to his brother. Gavroche took it and started to shovel one of the spoons into his mouth almost immediately, until Eponine said something sharp in Spanish. Musichetta smiled as he obediently mumbled a thank you round the spoon, and Eponine nodded his own thanks as they left the counter.

“Later, Chetta.”

“Bye girl.”

“Chetta, we’re going to have to start moving people on soon,” Bossuet said, and it didn’t matter that he distracted her, because Musichetta wouldn’t have noticed the slight tensing of Eponine’s departing back anyway. The gritting of his teeth.

“Give them ten more minutes,” she murmured, and Bossuet nodded, taking the full bowl she passed him and passing it to the next guy in the queue.

Enjolras opened his mouth, then closed it and handed the bowl to the lady next to him. Then Bossuet looked up and nearly dropped the next one (not from surprise particularly – he just dropped them quite often). “Oh, hey Enjolras!”

“Hello. What can I do?”

Musichetta heard his even tone and almost fainted with relief when she saw the matching stern face. “You’re here to help?” she said, ladling out another bowl, and she visibly sagged when he nodded. “Oh thank god. Okay, there’s a recipe by the sink, can you make up another pot of soup? Put your jacket on the – that’s it. Thank you so much,” she said as he rounded the counter rolling up his shirt sleeves.

“No problem.” He found the recipe and scanned it, then stooped to open cupboards. “You’re very busy tonight,” he observed as he lifted out a big steel pot, setting it on the side with a thud.

Musichetta huffed, nodding as she passed Bossuet more bowls. “We’re the only place in this neighbourhood that does free food. Feels like we get half of New York in here this time of year.

Enjolras shook his head and said nothing, starting to open soup cans and wondering why Musichetta and Bossuet spent the extra time putting more vegetables in if they were already rushed off their feet. It filled people up more, he supposed, and he made sure to get the amounts right.

“You’re out late, Enjolras,” Bossuet said from Musichetta’s other side. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“No, just as a loose end,” he lied, tipping the cans into the pan one by one and thinking about Grantaire’s apartment two blocks away. He’s lost courage right before knocking.

He’d never lost the courage for anything before.

“How are your colours doing?” Musichetta asked then, smiling at his sidelong, and he shook himself.

“Good, yes,” he said. “I have everything except green now.”

“Hey, congrats!”

Enjolras managed a small smile, looking at the orange soup and the navy of rolled up sleeves. “Thank you.”

“Took me ages to learn all the names when I bonded with Jenny,” she continued absent-mindedly, smiling at the memory. “I got yellow and orange mixed up all the time.”

“Margot learned them all before me,” Bossuet said.

“Your sister?” Enjolras knew next to nothing about her.

“Hm-hmm. We had a competition ‘cos our parents wanted us to learn the names quickly, and she beat me. Not my fault she had a bonded kindergarten teacher,” he groused, and Musichetta laughed.

“Courfeyrac’s been testing me on mine,” Enjolras said, sliding carrot slices into the pot with small plopping sounds. “Although he often prioritises colours like turquoise over brown, which is… unhelpful.”

They laughed, and he couldn’t help be surprised. Musichetta and Bossuet didn’t have the luxury of career prospects that tied in entirely with their interests, so although they and Joly did come to Musain meetings, it wasn’t their main priority – unlike Enjolras and Combeferre, they didn’t want to be lawyers, high flying on the human rights scene. Joly was an intern at the hospital and Musichetta wanted to teach, Bossuet not decided yet. So Enjolras always felt a little separate from them, a little distanced. He didn’t want that, of course – he _wanted_ to be working shoulder to shoulder with them, laughing easily and fitting in and complaining about the same things they did. But he was awkward, too conscious of his own overwhelming privilege, an officer in the wrong mess.

And he missed Grantaire.

Realising suddenly that he was just staring at cold soup, Enjolras shook himself a second time and lit the gas on the stove. After adding the rest of the ingredients on the list to the pot dutifully, he fished out an elastic band from his pocket and raked his curls back to make himself focus, turning to Musichetta for orders. Grantaire would come to a meeting soon, he thought to himself once he started putting hot water in the sink, hands shedding any remaining chill from outside. He just deserved patience.

*

But Grantaire didn’t come to meetings, and Christmas came and went. Lit New York up like a beacon, stormed through the streets with icy cheer, then swept away across the Atlantic as quickly as it came.

Enjolras thought he’d get used to it, after seven texts sent, each three days apart, and no replies. After the dial tone started cutting out when he tried calling, rather than just ringing through. He thought he got used to it, but the others could see he didn’t.

“Oh, also, final thing.”

It was raining against the Musain’s window, hammering against the panes in a way that made it clear when it turned to hail, the wet patter becoming sharp. Enjolras was standing by the radiator’s heat unconsciously, more towards the back corner of the room than usual.

“I managed to get an internship at Sullivan and Cromwell,” he said, “And I’ll be starting in the spring, so.”

“Hey that’s fantastic E!” Feuilly said, holding up for an air-five that Enjolras gingerly gave him across the room as the others broke into cheers.

“That’s so great, Enjolras,” Bahorel agreed, and Cosette started an applause that their leader didn’t bother to wave away – by now he’d learnt that only made them worse.

“Thank you,” he said instead, over it. “Goodnight then, everyone. It’s slippery outside, be careful.”

“Goodnight!”

“Night E!”

“See you next week Enjolras!”

_Walk me home, dearest Apollo?_

_Grantaire, you only live two minutes away._

_Only? But I would treasure those minutes as if they were a decade, Enjolras. The mere thought of it sends me-_

“Enjolras?

Enjolras looked up, startled, and saw Courfeyrac was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. Everyone else had left, somehow.

“Good to go?” he asked gently, and Enjolras immediately started gathering up his papers.

“Yes, coming.”

Courfeyrac watched him. He was wearing more layers than usual, more than was necessary even for this weather, and his phone was in his front pocket not back, a thermos peeking out his backpack as he stuffed the papers into it. They were all tells, Courfeyrac knew. But with Enjolras, the extra warmth wasn’t because of illness, and the phone wasn’t there accidentally.

“Want to stay at ours tonight?” Courfeyrac suggested casually, and leant on the doorjamb for effect, threw in a glance out the window. “It’s pouring out.” Enjolras’ pity radar was as good as Combeferre’s, and Courfeyrac had to do a lot to stay under it. He was adept with his soulmate’s by now (had to be, otherwise Combeferre would pride his way to hypothermia just to avoid a blanket), but Enjolras was... Well, lately, Enjolras was almost impossible to offer anything to.

“No thanks, Courf, I have a lot of work to do,” Enjolras said, sure enough, as he crossed to the stairs.

“But your laptop’s still at ours,” Courfeyrac said as they descended, shoes thudding on the creaky wood.

“Yes, well. I only need books for this.”

His friend supressed a sigh as they waved goodnight to Musichetta, who was locking up the till behind the darkened bar. Case and point, he thought. He briefly considered brute force, but knew that would be about as effective as a kitten tugging at Enjolras’ jeans, and being kicked away didn’t really appeal to Courfeyrac right now. So he settled for: “Okeydokey!” and hugged him in the doorway to the café. Then they both picked up their umbrellas from the basket.

“Tell Combeferre good luck from me?” Enjolras said. “For the interview.”

“Send him a text,” Courfeyrac said, smiling. “Tell him yourself.”

Enjolras hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. Safe home, Courf.”

“You too E. Don’t work too late.”

Then the door to the Musain was open and they headed in opposite directions down the sidewalk, the rain hissing on their two umbrellas.

*

Enjolras didn’t particularly enjoy rain. In kindergarten Courfeyrac would always be the one begging to go outside in downpours while Enjolras and Combeferre did puzzles in the dry warmth, and his attitude was yet to change. Rain was cold, persistent and killed morale on marches – not to mention how it reduced even the best-placed posters to illegible mush without the proper lamination. At least he was dressed for it, he thought, noticing two women ahead of him that were sprinting to get home, their shoes slapping forcefully through the puddles and their squealing laughter carrying down the street. The rain clattered on the plastic above Enjolras’ dry head as he turned onto the quiet street where his bus stop was. It had taken him a little while not to feel nervous near roads after the accident, which annoyed him, seeing as he was the one that had been unscathed. But this street was almost empty anyway, tucked in one of the quieter pockets of the city and out the way. It was far from idyllic suburbia, though, he thought as he spied a homeless man asleep on the sidewalk ahead, a dark-furred dog as wet as its sleeping owner at his side. Enjolras headed over without a second thought – he still had half his thermos of coffee, and it was worth telling the man about Musichetta’s kitchen seeing as it was close.

The old dog lifted its head off its paws as Enjolras approached, and Enjolras realised its owner didn’t even have a coat, lying on his side with one bare arm pillowing his head as if he wasn’t in the middle of the sidewalk in icy torrential rain. The dog’s face went from a kind of faithful sadness to a snarl, lip curling, as Enjolras started juggling his umbrella to take off his coat, and the sound of the growl made the man shift and mumble something. It was just as Enjolras succeeded in taking off his parka, respectfully ignoring the animal, that he noticed the ink snake, tight-coiled around the stranger’s arm from bicep to wrist. He recognised it at the same moment that the man mumbled, half asleep: “Go to sleep, buddy,” to the dog, and Enjolras froze.

He felt his heart do a funny kind of climb up his ribs then fall down again. He opened his mouth. Couldn’t think of a word.

Then the dog let out a single, growling _bark,_ and Grantaire was startled fully awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter there's some Powerful!Jehan that i'm super excited for (and other joyous things!). Comments and kudos make my crops grow. (O.O)/
> 
> (Also: the other relationships in this fic are more background-ish ones, yes, but i will be exploring them plenty in the upcoming chapters!)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! For those that noticed, so sorry for the delay. Exams are upon me. *flails*.  
> Thanks for sticking with it - hopefully a bigger chapter makes up for it!
> 
> tw/ alcoholism.

“What is it, dummy,” Grantaire muttered, still somehow audible through the hiss of the rain on the tarmac, and Enjolras could only stand wordless as his soulmate pushed himself up onto one arm. He didn't seem to have noticed him yet, which, judging by Grantaire's blurt of “Ah _fuck_ it's raining,” wasn't a surprise. The dog was still looking with steady distrust at Enjolras, but it let Grantaire scratch at its neck.

“...Grantaire,” Enjolras heard himself say at last. He felt very small, suddenly.

Grantaire's head swung round. The sodium light of the streetlamps made him a contrast of yellows and blacks, his hair dripping, inky, and his face three days unshaven. His eyes were bruised with tiredness, and they only had a moment to widen before a full body shiver took over.

“Fuck, it's raining,” he said again, this time clamping both his patterned arm and his plain one tight around himself and looking down the street as if that would explain something.

“What..” Enjolras made himself step forward to hold the umbrella over them both, and his heart was hurting him as it beat. “What are you doing out here? It's- it's the middle of the night!”

“I was just...” Grantaire stared at the bus that pulled up in the distance distractedly, it's headlights cutting two round beams through the rain. “You know, hanging out..”

Enjolras felt a little hysterical suddenly. “You're in the middle of the  _street_ , Grantaire! I thought you were- where's Jehan?”

The dog barked at Enjolras' tone but now he just glared at it. “And what the hell is this dog doing here?!”

“Jehan's at their parents',” Grantaire said, finally bringing his gaze away from the headlights. “And relax, Apollo, he's a stray, not dangerous.”

“Get up, we're going inside.”

“Enjolras, seriously-”

“It wasn't a request,” he grit out, and he pulled Grantaire up with a single-minded determination that the artist could only protest weakly against, scrambling to get his feet under himself.

“Enjolras I'm _fine_ ,” he insisted, and it would have been convincing if Enjolras' hand wasn't like a fire brand compared to his own skin and he hadn't then given a dangerous stagger. As it was, Enjolras' expression remained completely thunderous as he thrust his coat into one of Grantaire's free hands.

“Put that on.”

Grantaire opened his mouth to say that was stupid, Enjolras was skinny as hell and he'd probably freeze long before Grantaire did, but one glare quickly had him closing it again and obeying, fumbling a little in his haste. The dog that was certainly not Grantaire's was now silent, and stood close to Grantaire's leg so it could look up at him.

“S'alright, Dog,” Grantaire said to it, but now the cold was finally rearing its head and Enjolras grit his teeth at the audible shake in his words. “He's only a bit dangerous.”

“Show me where your apartment is,” Enjolras said roughly, and started walking, hurt shooting through his worry because _how dare he_ be the same when Enjolras felt so overturned, like it hadn't been _weeks_ of _nothing_ from him, not even a _word_.

“Enjolras will you calm down?” Grantaire then said, stumbling to keep up even with his cast now off. Enjolras really knew exactly where to go and wasn't wasting a second with dawdling. “I'm not _dying_ , you can-”

“Have you been drinking?” he interrupted – if he was told to relax one more time he was going to break something. Grantaire faltered, and even though Enjolras wasn't looking, concentrating on keeping the rain out of his face, he could feel the moment when his mood twisted.

“Of course,” he soon replied, and sure enough, bitterly sardonic. “Can't you tell just from looking at me?”

“I can smell it on you,” Enjolras said, unblinking. “And finding you passed out in the street was a pretty big hint, too.”

“Ah, disdain,” Grantaire shot back, “how I missed thee.”

“Stop it Grantaire, you need to be more careful.”

He scoffed, boot steps heavy just behind him. “Please, tell me more of how disappointing I am. Did I perhaps bring this upon myself?”

Enjolras stopped in his tracks and Grantaire did as well, but Enjolras didn't turn around. “You know I don't think that,” he said sharply, eyes on the houses ahead.

“And yet here you are, impersonating my father again.”

“Will you-” Enjolras had expected himself to have more self-control, but judging by the way he was now glaring into gray eyes, he couldn't help turn around. “Will you stop that! You always say that to rile me, I'm trying to help you!”

“I say that because it's true. Look at me, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, lowly, the snake on his arm wet and dark where he stood just outside of the umbrella. “I've probably drunk more than your body weight tonight and I'm fine. You've had nothing but a glass of self-righteousness with your breakfast this morning and you look like you want to knock out my teeth. And you're the one trying to help?”

“Knocking out your teeth is becoming increasingly-”

“Try it, kid. I've been fighting since before you got your trust fund.”

Enjolras stared. 

A car crawled past them with a soft rush, unnoticed except for the light it threw on half of Grantaire's face for a moment. He'd stopped shivering. Wet skin and a shadowed look.

“Come on,” Grantaire then said with a grimace that almost looked regretful, passing Enjolras. “The apartment's this way.”

*

They climbed an echoing stairway, Grantaire's boots thudding and Enjolras' sneakers whispering on the concrete. It's cold, and the motion sensitive lights flick on as they pass, off once they're gone, like the building is peering at them suspiciously. Enjolras doesn't know what he's doing here, but he doesn't know what he'd do anywhere else, either. Grantaire keeps his head lowered and fishes out some keys from the back pocket of his soaked jeans when they reach the fourth floor, the landing an island of artificial (and slightly flickering) light in what is otherwise chilled darkness.

“Please wipe your feet,” he murmured somewhat woodenly as he unlocked the door of number 38 with a rattle, stepping into the inside gloom. Enjolras followed him in, obeying with a shuffle of his feet on the doormat and one last look into the empty stairwell.

Grantaire and Jehan's apartment is small, of course, no one has the money for excess around here. The kitchen, Enjolras remembers from parties, is on the right, with a little breakfast bar and a single window – old fashioned yellow curtains, the sort of thing Jehan thinks is adorable. Their room is the first on the left, closest to the bathroom to make it easier, and down the deceptively long corridor lies Grantaire's own room. He's disappeared down that way already, an inky mass on an already dark background, and Enjolras, not as sure of his footing, reaches for the lightswitch. 

“Don't.”

He stopped. Grantaire's night vision was apparently better than his, because he could feel himself being looked at by the depths of the hallway.

“Just walk straight, I don't let the floor get cluttered because of Jehan.”

Enjolras didn't think of that. He retracted his hand and stepped forward, past the pale gloom of the kitchen and toward the back of the apartment.

“I'm going to shower,” Grantaire murmured as soon as Enjolras was in the room, and he was forced to squint because Grantaire suddenly flicked the bedside lamp on. White light filled the room but it was too much, somehow, too much white, and Enjolras didn't understand why at first. But then, once his eyes had adjusted, he realised. All the walls were papered over. And he could tell it was paper, not paint, because there were faces peering at him from behind it. Friends, statues, creatures. 

Grantaire's paintings covered up.

“Um, I don't really have food or anything so I guess you can just.. sit?”

Again, he wondered what he was doing here.

“Yes, alright.”

He watched Grantaire go out into the hall again, pulling his tank over his head as he went. The muscles in his back  were tightly strung, shifting like there was too much of him in his own skin, and Enjolras wondered if it was intimidation that he felt.

_ I've been fighting since before you got your trust fund. _

Maybe.

But there was a laugh, a laugh before a car accident, that made Enjolras wonder if there was something else, too.

*

Grantaire can feel the tightness in his chest – his lungs are just a little smaller. He almost laughs, he’s become so used to this, so tired of this, but the only sound he makes is sharper inhale than the last. He wants to let it take him - panic is one of his four horsemen. He drew them all once. He thinks that panic would ride a rabid foal, foaming and kicking and trying to-

Breathe in.

Or maybe it would just be weak. Young, yes, panic makes everyone a child - but weak. If Hercules were drowning, would he no longer be the strongest man?

Why does he think like this. He reads too much.

Breathe out.

That makes him think of Enjolras – no, no. Steady. 

Breathe in.

That way madness lies. He is that way though, doesn’t remember ever seeing another path, not since Enjolras crossed his. 

High school, split lip, glaring and thin. Eyes he could drown in - eyes that would freeze over and trap him underneath. 

Breathe out.

Enjolras fought, fought a lot. Piano fingers, bruised. Sitting in detention rooms, unrepentant, and oh, sunlight in his hair. Grantaire at the back, mending ballet shoe soles with only half his attention. Gaping a little, because who the hell was this.

Put on the straight and narrow by that French guy soon enough.

God, he wanted to see Enjolras fight again. He could still  hear that blunt, meaty sound of a fine-boned fist hitting some jerk’s face that he didn’t bother remembering the name of, that soft sound of exertion when Enjolras hit someone bigger than him, kind of like a gasp, kind of like a growl-

Grantaire shivered, and realised he was starting to feel the opposite of panicked. He sucked in a breath, then started laughing to himself, curled up on the  bathroom  floor against the wall. He was so fucked up.

The shower ran over it all.

*

Enjolras sat still for seven minutes, but that was his limit. He was a fidgety person, restless, Combeferre the only one of the triumvirate that actually enjoyed the absence of activity. _He_ could meditate for two hours straight, but Enjolras couldn't think of a worse pass time.

So, when he spied Grantaire's bookcase in the corner of the room, on the other side of the surprisingly meticulous bed, he was soon padding over to it, the shower whirring in the background. The books were the only things in the room, other than the old blue carpet, that had escaped the white papering. Even the shelves themselves had been covered over.

Enjolras had no idea what he expected Grantaire to read, but he certainly hadn't expected the sheer volume of books on the bookshelf - the wooden supports were bowing under the weight of them all, and most of them were sizable editions. He.. didn't know _why_ he hadn't expected it. It wasn't as though Grantaire was illiterate. He just never thought..

_He had interests outside of me?_

The thought almost physically startled Enjolras and he shook his head immediately. That would imply Enjolras  _expected_ to be the center of Grantaire's universe,  that he'd become accustomed to being the only thing that made him-

Enjolras stopped. His reflection met his gaze in the dark window.

Then he quickly looked away and grabbed the first book in his reach. He didn't even read the cover until he'd crossed back to the end of the bed again and sat down, suddenly feeling unsettled for a reason he couldn't place. He exhaled.

He was just tired,  his brain thinking untrue things as if they were obvious facts.

He opened the book.

*

“Let me guess.”

Enjolras jumped, looking up then away again just as quickly when he saw Grantaire in the doorway, swiping at his eyes with a hand to get rid of a stray tear.

“ _Anthem for Doomed Youth_?” 

Grantaire's face was reasonably passive, and he looked much the same as before his shower (although, paradoxically, dryer).

Enjolras cleared his throat and felt embarrassed, but when he glanced back down at the page he'd been reading he had to nod.

“I've.. actually never read war poetry before,” he murmured.

“Really?” Grantaire said, loping into the bedroom with track pants hanging loose on his hips as he toweled his hair. “Sort of thing I thought you'd be into.”

Enjolras nodded absent-mindedly, already turned back to the words. Grantaire glanced at him, hand pausing in its toweling, and quietly exhaled.

“Enjolras, can you, um..”

Enjolras looked up. The blue eyes stung to look at.

“Can you, y'know, take your jacket off?”

He looked down at himself, then those eyes visibly widened and he immediately set down the book. “Shit, Grantaire I apologise-” he mumbled, and started pulling off the old red jacket with haste. Grantaire looked at his bed while he did so, resuming monotonous circular motions in his hair.

“S'alright.”

“My shoes, as well, do you want me to-?”

“Thanks, yeah,” he murmured. Shame warmed his chest.

“I didn't think, because we were outside in the dark before.” There was the sound of sneakers being tugged off feet, and the light padding of Enjolras as he disappeared dutifully into the hallway. Grantaire watched him go. Huffed quietly, suddenly half amused.

_You're so weird, Enjolras._

_Says the sophomore that has nothing better to do than call a freshman 'weird'. Grantaire, is it?_

_Yeah, Grantaire._

_Go find something better to do with your time._

“Grantaire.. are these...?”

Grantaire looked round, hair still only really half dry. Enjolras was back in the room, white shirt, black jeans, white socks, and he was holding something in his hands. “These were on the floor in the hall, I thought you might want to move them..”

“Oh.” The gloves hung loosely. Grantaire swallowed, then busied himself with finding a dry t-shirt in his chest of drawers. “I'm throwing them out, they take up a lot of space.”

“Are they yours? They.. they look old.”

He nodded, hearing Enjolras tentatively sit on the bed again. They were older than he was.

Enjolras looked at Grantaire's turned back again, something that he seemed to be forced to do a lot, and couldn't help  think of the books once more as he said:

“I didn't know you boxed.”

Because that was what they were, no doubt about it. Thick, black leather, bulbous over the knuckles, tighter at the wrists.  They smelt of some kind of wax, and were surprisingly soft to touch. Enjolras had never even seen a pair of boxing gloves in real life before.

“Used to. Can you, uh.. can you stop picking up my stuff?”

“I'm sorry.” He immediately put them down next to him, his face heated, and clasped his hands in his lap. He didn't know what he was doing, he wasn't usually so intrusive, surely.

Grantaire pulled on a gray t-shirt that was adequately bland, then shut the drawer. He looked at Enjolras, then felt a strange sense of frustration worm through him.

“Why are you being so weird?” he then blurted, suddenly.

Enjolras lifted his head, startled. “What?”

Grantaire pushed a hand through his hair, “I dunno you're just, sitting there, being- being  _there_ .”

“I'll go,” Enjolras said straight away, and stood up.

“No! Jeez, will you-” Grantaire tried to catch his breath and clenched a fist. Enjolras faltered, blonde curls over his eyes. Easy. Easy. 

Grantaire inhaled, then exhaled.

“No,” he said again. He made his voice come out quieter. “No, it's fine. I'm just.. tired, I guess. Sorry. Can you stop looking at me? Maybe that's it. Your eyes are like fucking lasers.”

“Of course.” And Enjolras bowed his head, just like that. Grantaire thought it was the first time he'd ever seen him do it – he was surprised his neck even bent that way.

“Th-thanks.”

“You're right, though,” Enjolras said, from where he'd started examining a scar on the back of his own hand. “I don't really know why I'm here. I suppose I wanted to make sure you got back alright.” _Walk me home, dearest Apollo?_ “The weather's so foul, after all.”

Grantaire paused, then sat on the bed so that he could pick up the discarded Wilfred Owen anthology. “Rain's not so bad. Think of it as cleansing.”

“Cleansing?”

“Sure.” He flicked through the pages of the old book, and Enjolras suddenly noticed that his skin was still ink-free. “New York's all engines, people and concrete, it needs a shower once in a while. And besides,” he added. “How else are flowers supposed to grow?”

“In the spring, when it's warmer.”

“Shame on you, things flower in December too Apollo.”

“A boxer _and_ a botanist, then?”

“And a ballet dancer, don't forget. All the best hobbies start with 'b'.”

Enjolras let himself smile. It might have  felt like things were before, if they'd been looking at each other.  If Grantaire hadn't looked so tired. And if Enjolras hadn't noticed ten minutes before, in the corner of the room, that his easel had been disassembled. 

But as it was, it felt different. They both knew it.

“I should head back.”

“..Yeah. Okay.”

They glanced at each other, then away again when they remembered.

“I'd offer for you to stay, but Jehan's not here and I kinda, well,” Grantaire tried a laugh, “I kinda need them to function, so.”

Enjolras tried not to let his expression change. “No, of course. I.. If you need anything..” he murmured as he stood up, and Grantaire did the same. It felt oddly formal.

“I'll text you.”

“Really?” Enjolras looked up, a flash of blue hope, then looked somewhere near Grantaire's shoulder quickly. Grantaire felt something a little painful.

“Sure. How about.. tomorrow evening or something? Depends when I'm asleep obviously, but..”

“That sounds fine,” Enjolras agreed, and suddenly he seemed to have gotten taller, a little brighter. “Alright then,” he was soon saying, and he went into the hall to collect his jacket and shoes. Grantaire followed more slowly, his stride always heavier.

“You're sure you're alright to get back?” he murmured from the doorway, ignoring the colored shades of the hallway walls that his bedroom light was hinting at. He still couldn't quite believe that Enjolras had been in his room, and for nearly an hour at that.

“Of course. It's Wednesday, I do this basically every time.”

“Wednesday?” Grantaire asked. Enjolras looked up from tugging on his shoes in the gloom. His shoulders sank minutely, Grantaire noticed that sort of thing.

“..Oh, er, yes. Musain meetings are still, you know. Going on.”

A stone dropped into Grantaire's stomach and he immediately felt guilty. “Oh yeah,” he said lamely. “Wednesdays.”

They didn't say anything else for a few minutes, as Enjolras meticulously tied his shoes and tucked the laces in. Then he straightened up and said, jacket over his arm and halfway out the light of the bedroom:

“Talk tomorrow, then?”

Grantaire noticed, and appreciated, that Enjolras didn't push the subject.

“Yeah.”

He nodded. “Alright. Goodnight then.” He shouldered his backpack, then stepped down the hall and opened the door to the stairway outside. Uncharacteristically, he looked back.

“Night, E,” Grantaire said with a two finger wave, kind of like a salute.

Enjolras nodded again. Then the apartment door was shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading. my promise of powerful!jehan will come soon, don't worry! ^-^ all is not solved for these two (whispers: not by a long shot.)
> 
> kudos and comments make the flowers grow! <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back! so sorry for the delay, would you believe me if i said i was doing chimpanzee research in japan? :')  
> enjoy, and thanks so much for sticking with it! <3  
> (Look at the texting time stamps if you want a little more depth to the text conversation, they are deliberate!)
> 
> tw: alcoholism mention, depression.

The next night is Thursday, and it’s still raining.

Phones buzz under bed covers.

[23:03] **_hello it is me_**

[23:03] **_as in grantaire that wasn’t necessarily clear sorry_**

[23:03] **_anyway_**

[23:04] **_do u think jehan would let me keep Dog?_**

[23:07] _Does he not already belong to somebody?_

[23:08] _And hello, I hope you’ve had a good day. Thank you for texting._

[23:10] **_its ok i said i would and i wanted to_**

[23:10] **_and i mean_**

[23:10] **_probably not_**

[23:11] _That’s quite important to check._

[23:12] **_what kind of owner would treat him so badly lmao_**

[23:13] _He did look a little thin_.

[23:13] ** _i know :(_**

[23:13] **_he’s basically mine tbh hes eaten like 5 lasgnes that i made so_**

[23:13] **_*lasagnes_**

[23:13] **_anyway do u think poetry has to rhyme_**

[23:16] **_sorry_**

[23:17] **_are you asleep_**

[23:17] _I am just thinking._

[23:18] :-)

[23:18] **_oh ok that’s cool sorry_**

[23:18] **_lol ur smileys have noses ofc they do_**

[23:19] _What do you mean?_

[23:19] **_nothing ignore me haha_**

[23:20] :-|

[23:20] **_haha what even is that tbh_**

[23:21] _I am going to ignore you. Though I have my answer about the poetry._

[23:21] **ooh go go :-) :-) :-)**

[23:21] _It doesn’t have to rhyme, of course. There is plenty of poetry that is called as such which has no rhyming pattern whatsoever._

[23:22] **_ok but consider: are there times in some poems when the rhyme is essential?_**

[23:24] _Judging by your enthusiasm, I’d say yes?_

[23:24] **_haha oops sorry_**

[23:24] **_bit random_**

[23:24] **_haha nvm actually idek why I was asking_**

[23:25] _No, it’s interesting. Limericks somewhat require rhyming, I believe (although I last did English literature in High School and I can’t remember much). And emotionally, I suppose you could argue that some poems require their rhyming scheme in order to convey the same message._

[23:27] **_lol u never listened in english lit u were always looking out the window_**

[23:30] _You were in my English Lit class?_

[23:33] **_yeah I sat a couple seats behind you I had to retake that class_**

[23:33] **_we talked a couple times_**

[23:34] **_anyway that’s fine dw there were lots of people in high school haha_**

[23:35] _I don’t understand why I don’t remember you if you remember me so clearly?_

[23:36] **_it’s fine haha_**

[23:37] **_anyway jehan is coming back later tonight isn’t that great !_**

[23:46] **_oh looks like you’ve gone ok sleep well !_**

[23:46] _wait_

[23:47] **_oh ok_**

[23:47] **_btw dw if ur tired u don’t have to stay talking to me_**

[23:50] _I don’t understand why you remember me so well and I fail to do the same about you. This isn’t the only time, either. I don’t even know how we met? But I know that if I ask you you’ll be able to say exactly when, where and how. I’ve technically known you for nearly seven years now I think. Since I was 15 and you were 17 right? Because you got held back etc. And yet I don’t have seven years of memories about us. I have eighteen years of memories with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, I remember every birthday, Courf’s father’s funeral, Combeferre’s lectures, all in good detail. There’s nothing wrong with my memory. And yet I don’t remember us like you do. I’m sorry. I wish it wasn’t the case, and I don’t know why it is. It upsets me. Although it didn’t used to, I admit, because I never noticed it. But now I’ve realised. You know me really well. I don’t know why I don’t know you._

[23:53] **_bc u love combeferre and courf obv._**

[23:53] **_that’s why u remember them better than u remember me._**

[23:54] _But then why do you remember me?_

[23:59] **_idk_**

[23:59] _Grantaire?_

[23:59] **_yeah_**

[00:00] _Tell me what’s wrong._

[00:00] **_depression lol_**

[00:01] _I don’t mean that. I mean what have I done._

[00:03] **_wow that was dismissive lol_**

[00:04] _Forgive me_.

[00:08] **_haha_**

[00:08] **_wow_**

[00:08] **_reading u say that really fucks me up_**

[00:09] _I’m so confused. Please, I don’t want to upset you._

[00:10] _I don’t want it to go back to how it was before yesterday_.

[00:15] _grantaire_

[00:15] **_jehan’s home i have to help them with their bags n stuff i’ll have to talk to you later sorry_**

[00:16] _Ok that’s completely fine_

[00:16] _Have a good rest of your evening_

[00:18] _Talk to you later in the week perhaps?_

[00:19] **_yeah ok. sleep well._**

[00:19] _And you_

[00:22] _Goodnight_

*

That Saturday morning Enjolras is wired. When he looks at himself in the mirror above the sink, his eyes look a little clearer – a tightness around them had disappeared that he hadn’t even noticed until it was gone.

It’s been two days since their texting.

He’s read over the conversation several times now, although he and Grantaire haven’t had another since. He’s confident, though. He and Combeferre can go a week without contact, and it’s not like they’re ignoring-

He pauses, toothbrush stopping. Well, he supposes they are ignoring each other. Enjolras thinks about their argument in the hospital and rolls his eyes, finishing with brushing and spitting into the sink. As he turns on the faucet, water washing the toothpaste away, he wonders if he ought to apologise to Combeferre. But the answer is something prideful rebelling in his chest at the idea and he obeys it gladly, putting the thought of it away with his toothbrush.

Breakfast is the New York Times and an apple, and he examines the grey fruit thoughtfully as he chews it, cross-legged on his bed in his boxers. Green has yet to come through for him. It isn’t raining outside, although the ground is wet and thinly icy from the previous days, the cold sun occasionally deciding to show itself through the gap in the curtains of Enjolras’ small window, lighting up the hair on the top of his head as he sits curled over the newspaper.

His alarm goes off ten minutes later – he stops it without looking up, then unfolds his legs and stands with the newspaper still in front of his face. Teeth cleaned a second time (he can’t stand it otherwise), then he dresses.

He’s seeing Grantaire today, he’s decided. He’ll sit and talk with him, try and make progress. They’ll agree to meet again, perhaps in another two days?

Enjolras stands in front of the mirror. Nods to himself, then grabs his keys.

*

Jehan feels the final stretch, sliding their delicate fingertips towards their toes, making sure to keep their knees flat on the floor. There’s pain, then burn, then just the fibrous stretch of muscle. They hold it, eyes closing.

Then it was enough. They slowly sat back, then pulled themself into a stand with their right hand on the bed frame. _It’s funny_ , Jehan thinks as they limp into the kitchen, cane-less this morning. _When Grantaire sleeps, the apartment seems to do the same._ The coffee machine is quiet, the cars don’t pass, and the air seems heavier, drowsier. They’re very much awake, personally, but they’re happy to humour the atmosphere, picking through the kitchen things quietly, methodically, like a deer grazing. Three little cacti sit on the kitchen windowsill, and two of them, they notice with affection, have started to flower, little gray stars.

**_BUZZ_**.

“-oh sweet Jesus!” Jehan clutches their chest as the doorbell shakes the air like a taser. It cuts out soon after, and they sigh, putting down their granola and shuffling out of the kitchen into the hall with as much haste as possible to avoid a second ring. They hear Grantaire turn over in his bed when they pass, like a lion stirring, and they check with a glance that his door is closed.

The sunlight is sharp on the outside landing, compared to the gentle gloom of the apartment.

“Enjolras?”

He turned from examining the stairwell, dressed in his usual shades of gray, and said:

“Good morning Jehan. How are you?”

Jehan suddenly felt less awake, and rested their hip against the doorjamb. “Uh, good hon… yeah I’m good. And you?”

“Very well, thank you. I was wondering if Grantaire was in.” He was looking at them with his usual piercing intensity, all sharp lines and military energy that was too weapon-like for this early in the morning.

Jehan shifted against the door frame. “…Yep? Yep, he’s here. Why, did something happen?” they asked, and something suddenly seemed to falter in Enjolras’ momentum. He, too, became halting.

“Er… no, why do you ask?

“You… well, I thought you were checking if he got home alright or something.”

“No, I would like to see him.”

“See him?”

“Yes, I thought I’d drop by and, you know…” He flicked a hand in a way that Jehan thought was somewhat dismissive – ‘socially interact’, they supposed the gesture meant. Jehan frowned.

“Hon, isn’t it pretty early? And Grantaire didn’t mention you were coming round…?”

“It’s not too early, surely.”

“Nine thirty?”

“A standard work day.”

Jehan huffed a kind of bemused laugh, which confused Enjolras, and then he was only further bewildered when Jehan started coming out of the apartment and pulling the door halfway shut behind them.

“But Jehan, I wanted to-“ They held up a hand, murmuring as they propped the door with a foot:

“Not right now, E. It’s too early, you’re too sparky to go in there right now.”

Enjolras began to look affronted. “Sparky, what- why aren’t you letting me in?”

“Grantaire is _asleep_ ,” they emphasised, losing a little patience. “If you’d arranged in advance he might have been able to get himself up, but spontaneous morning visits are hardly ideal for him are they?”

Enjolras frowned. “Why… why not?”

Jehan stared at him, big eyes a little violet in the middle if you looked close enough. Then they shook their head and seemed to make an effort to restore tolerance.

“Grantaire sleeps badly, I thought you already knew. Okay, well, now you do I suppose. Sorry hon, this morning isn’t going to work.” They propped their strong arm against the doorframe for support. “Why don’t you try tomorrow afternoon?” they added a little tiredly.

Sunlight was used to Enjolras’ face, he seemed impervious to its yellow glare across his eyes. “I want to make sure he’s alright. We talked a couple of days ago, I want to-“

“I know, he told me.” Jehan exhaled. “Look, I’m looking after him, okay? It’s sweet of you to think of him but we’re okay.”

“It’s my responsibility.” Enjolras drew himself up, not intentionally Jehan thought – his physical mannerisms always seemed quite arrogant by default.

“Is it?”

“Well of course.”

There was a pause. Then Jehan began to examine Enjolras with this kind of steady, quiet mistrust that was surprisingly intimidating.

“What?” Enjolras said, shifting.

“Why is it your responsibility?” they asked, and Enjolras should have realised it was a test.

“Well, he’s my soulmate.”

Check. Their expression solidified. “I see. He’s got a part of you in him, so he’s worth it now.”

“What?”

“This is the first time you’ve showed up here like this, you know that?” Jehan murmured.

Enjolras frowned, and unpocketed his hands. “This is the first time I’ve felt the need.”

“The first time you’ve- okay.” Jehan shut the door with a thud, and then they took a step forward across the landing, face losing its last gentleness. “I won’t tolerate you coming here like you have every right to our space,” they said. “Tomorrow.”

“You’re refusing to let me see him?”

“Damn right I am Enjolras, why the hell wouldn’t I?” they demanded, looking up at his taller height but by no means losing power. They threw their hand out, pointed at the door. “He’s been here four years!”

“He-he didn’t need me then!” Enjolras protested, and Jehan could tell he was getting uncomfortable because his hands were curling and relaxing – he didn’t know what to do if he couldn’t fight or shout his way out, clearly.

“He didn’t need you?!” Jehan started to look openly appalled. “He needed everybody! Anybody! You come here demanding to be shown in like some white knight when the call to arms was years ago! You’re the cause of this, you know that? You’re the reason he doesn’t go out in the daytime! Drinks three whiskeys for every water! And you’re telling me he didn’t need you?”

“Then let me in! Let me fix it!” Enjolras shot, that grating quality entering his voice like it did when he was biting back. “Dammit Jehan if what I’ve done is so terrible let me fix it now! I came here to do that anyway, before you so readily assumed I was here for my own-“

“Before I so readily assumed you didn’t give a damn about Grantaire?” they said, voice bouncing off the corner of the stairwell with a smack. “Sorry, I was working on a seven-year trend!”

“So I’m denied any chance to redeem myself?”

“You always have a rebuttal, don’t you Enjolras, you can never just accept that you messed up and you’re too late-“

“No! I can’t, not with him!” he shouted, his breaths coming faster. “I _will_ make this better, I _will_ repent for whatever the fuck it is I’ve done and you’re _not_ going to stop me!”

“Actually, I will.” Jehan looked up, violet eyes.

Everything, suddenly, went quiet.

“I know you’re not used to it, Enjolras. People telling you no. But actually, you can’t always burn down the walls in front of you. In there is my brother. You understand that. You have your own family. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t stand here and do what I’m doing, say what I’ve said, if it was Cosette in that bed, sick.”

Enjolras swallowed. “He’s... he’s _not_ sick. Everyone is treating him like-”

“Listen.”

“there’s something really-“

“ _Enjolras_.”

Enjolras faltered. Jehan held his gaze.

“Listen now. Okay?”

The rare silence was a confirmation, and Jehan inhaled evenly.

“I’m sorry that this is so frightening for you. And I am sorry I shouted - we haven’t fought before, I don’t think.”

Enjolras shook his head. Mute was a strange thing on him, but Jehan kept going.

“But this is my job. This is… this is what I need to do, what I want to do – always - for him. I have to keep him safe. And you have to understand that you are…” They sighed, and the next words were clearly a debated choice. “You are _so_ important to him. We all say you’re the ‘leader’ of our group, and yes, that’s partially light-hearted, partially truthful, because you’re a good man and you’ve helped us all in one way or another. But it’s different for Grantaire. You… you practically turn the earth for him, I-“

They stopped themselves short. Took a pause again, always bringing themselves back to the centre. Started again. “So when you come here, when you’re with him, you have to understand what it means. You do have a responsibility, but you had it long before you bonded, and it frustrates me that it’s that bonding that’s making you act how you should have been all along. Because what I’m saying isn’t new to you, is it?” They looked at him. “I think you already know how he sees you.”

Something was dropping in Enjolras’ chest, like missing a step on a stairwell in slow motion.

“And you’ve taken that for granted,” they murmured. “Because you’re used to leading, to being followed. But I won’t let you treat him like just another disciple, not when it has done so much damage. He is a remarkable, gorgeous, _wonderful_ human, and he deserves so much more than to be used like that.” They shifted on the doorframe, the natural, softer lines of their body falling into place. “Now I’m not telling you that you have a duty to befriend him, or love him, or whatever – I don’t have the right. But what I _am_ saying, is that if you want to keep him in your life, to take on the ‘responsibility’ of being his soulmate - whatever that means - you _have_ to change.

“Because I’m not going to be there to stand in front of every door you try to charge through. But I trust in your sense of morality enough to believe that if you _knew_ how much damage you are capable of doing to him, and if you _knew_ how _utterly_ _undeserving_ of that damage he is, you wouldn’t dare treat him as you have done.” They lifted their shoulders in a kind of shrug. “Because you’re just not like that. Not when you understand. But sometimes you find it impossible to realise that you’re wrong. And this is me, telling you.”

Enjolras opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Then there was a soft creak from behind the apartment door.

Jehan turned their head to the side, both of them looked, and Enjolras felt every urge to step forward suddenly rise up in him like a tide again, complete and resound determination to step _forward_ because Grantaire was _there_ and it was what Enjolras want _-_

It…

It was what Enjolras wanted.

And.. that.. wasn’t enough. That wasn’t enough of a reason to do it, was it. Because Grantaire was _behind_ the door. Grantaire hadn’t come out, and Jehan hadn’t moved out of the way. Neither of them wanted what Enjolras wanted so for once-

He rocked back onto his heels again. He unclenched his fists, having never felt them clench.

For once he wouldn’t.

“I’m-“ He swallowed, and pocketed his hands. He looked down at his red shoes. “I’m sorry for shouting at you, Jehan.”

Jehan paused, then nodded. “I forgive you.”

“And... perhaps I won’t try and apologise for anything else, for now. Do you… is that alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah okay.”

When Enjolras gave a small gesture of goodbye and headed down the stairwell, Jehan grimaced and told themselves they were right to do this. It just felt so wrong to be the one to cause sadness - it sat in their belly guiltily, unnaturally, and they went into the apartment feeling as though the stairwell had become some kind of crime scene. They didn’t get far before they were in a pair of arms, though, a completely familiar pair that said “Thank you” so quietly they barely heard.

And that suddenly made it alright again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed! <3 kudos and comments make me happy! :)
> 
> next chapter we'll be seeing some progression and friction for Marius, Cosette and Eponine. Other kinds of friction should also be expected. *whispers* (combeferrac lemons ahead)  
> 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back! life is still marching inexorably forward, and I'm sorry for the delay. This chapter is longer to try and make up for my terrible organisation. thanks for sticking with it x

“Hi.”

Cosette jumped and nearly dropped her smoothie. Eponine looked at her coolly, tapping the cigarette near his thigh twice, and Cossette was immediately blushed at being so clumsy in front of someone who, even in the few times they’d met, always seemed completely in control.

“Eponine! God I didn’t even see you, how long have you been standing there?” she said, quickly putting the cup back on the safety of the little café table.

He shrugged. “Just got here. Want a cigarette?”

“What? A-“ She looked at the offered box. Glanced around the tables outside the Musain guiltily like Gavroche used to when he was still learning to steal. Then:

“Alright, yeah, just quickly.” She plucked one out with her blue and pink nails. Eponine smirked, feeling oddly victorious, and pulled up a chair with his leg to sit opposite her. “Marius isn’t with you?” he asked as he held out his lighter.

She shook her head, and Eponine’s stomach tightened at the way her eyes twinkled as her head dipped to the flame. Once she took the lit cigarette out of her mouth, held, and blew away like a literal goddess, she said: “He’s at the library. He’ll be back soon though, so I’ll have to put it out then.”

He scoffed. “He’ll definitely smell it on you.”

“I’ll just say you corrupted me,” she returned with a grin, and they fell into a silence that shouldn’t have been companionable. He shouldn’t feel like he’d known her for years.

“Is Gavroche still at school?” Cosette asked after a while. She meant it to be conversational, looking at Eponine with big, expectant blue eyes when she swapped from cigarette to smoothie straw – but it suddenly had Eponine tsking and rolling his eyes.

“Fucking teacher’s given him detention again. I hate them.”

Cosette’s brows knitted together. “What did he do?”

“Nothing. He never does anything, his English just isn’t good.” He tossed his head. “But whatever. He’ll learn how to jump through the hoops soon enough.”

“When did you two move here? Or were you born here?”

“I moved, he was born.” He counted something against the palm of his right hand – there was a small cross tattoo on the inside of his wrist that Cosette hadn’t noticed before. “I was six.”

“Mexico, or…?”

“Yeah.”

Cosette nodded and drank more smoothie. Eponine glanced at her other hand. “Tap your cigarette,” he reminded her. She looked at it too with a small noise of surprise, then obeyed with careful precision into the ashtray. Eponine smiled when she smiled, but only slightly. The Thing that had been weighing in his stomach these last few weeks had returned again, crouching there and reminding him. He watched Cosette – she’d turned her head to look back down the street, her thick pink jumper keeping her warm enough that she could get away with a black skirt and tights – she was swinging her foot absentmindedly, a little brown ankle boot. She sometimes wore a beret, or at least she had in their past encounters, but not today.

“Hey, Cosette.”

She looked at him. He started to feel sick.

“I’m… er.” He glanced down the street. There, that was easier, no big blue eyes. He swallowed. “I just… It doesn’t matter, like, if you don’t care or anything, I don’t expect anything to change, but, like…”

Suddenly there was a weight on his forearm and he flinched back instinctively – but Cosette, when he looked at her, had just reached across to put a hand there.

“Hey, easy,” she murmured, and for such thin fingers there was a quiet strength in her grip. “It’s only me.”

He stared at her. Then relaxed with one heavy fall of his shoulders. “Sorry.”

Cosette tucked a stray curl behind her ear with her free hand and leant across the table a little more. “What is it?” she asked. She was frowning, and he wanted to put his hand on hers, but that feeling told him he shouldn’t. That he would be tricking her, because she would still think it was a girl’s hand.

He opened his mouth. Took a short breath in.

Told her with savage efficiency both that he was a boy, and that she was really fucking beautiful.

*

[01:35] _Although this will not be sufficient, I just wanted to say that I’m not proud of what happened with Jehan last week. I know we haven’t spoken since then but this is just to try and say I’m not pretending it never happened, and I’m not ignoring you._

[01:37] _I just don’t know what to do._

[01:45] **hey**

[01:48] _Oh, hey._

[01:49] _I didn’t think you’d be awake._

[01:49] _I really need to learn your sleep cycle, don’t I?_

[01:50] **haha no worries**

[01:50] **how’s it going?**

[01:52] _Alright._

[01:53] **just alright? thought you got a job offer recently? Jehan told me**

[01:54] _Oh, that. Yes. Sullivan and Cromwell._

[01:54] **isn’t that the massive place on like, wall street?**

[01:55] _Yes, unfortunately._

[01:56] **haha thought you wouldn’t like that**

[01:57] _I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s alright with you?_

[01:57] **haha since when do i decide what we talk about? course it’s alright**

[01:59] **that came out badly**

[02:00] _No, I deserve that._

[02:01] **nah im sorry apollo**

[02:02] **don’t be annoyed**

[02:03] _It would be wrong for me to be annoyed about something I deserve._

[02:04] **human emotion isn’t so morally dictated**

[02:06] **what you doing right now?**

[02:07] _I’m sitting on the bathroom floor._

[02:07] **haha why?**

[02:07] **wait are you ok?**

[02:09] _Stop asking after me, I’m not the one that deserves it._

[02:09] **stop sounding like that**

[02:10] _Why?_

[02:10] **because it sounds like something’s really really wrong**

[02:11] _I guess self-deprecation is pretty shocking from me_

[02:12] _I’m sorry_

[02:13] **you’ve had a drink haven’t you?**

[02:14] _Yes, although I don’t mean for that. I mean for what I texted you about in the first place._

[02:15] **don’t worry about it. apollo you have like zero alcohol tolerance don’t drink anymore k?**

[02:16] _I won’t. Already thrown up._

[02:17] _Hence the bathroom._

[02:17] **ah man**

[02:17] **want me to call courf to come over to yours?**

[02:19] _Jehan said I never came over when you needed it the most._

[02:20] **Enjolras, don’t worry about that**

[02:21] _No, I will. No more of my emotional cowardice._

[02:22] **you’re such a dumbass**

[02:23] _You would have been happier if I’d made more effort._

[02:23] _You would have been healthier if it wasn’t for me._

[02:24] _You could have done better at school._

[02:24] _You could have learned at seventeen that you were worth liking._

[02:26] _Don’t tell me I’m wrong._

[02:30] **alright. fine. you’re not.**

[02:32] **i could have.**

[02:33] **i could have done a lot if you weren’t the way you were.**

[02:34] _Then I can’t be forgiven. What I’ve done is too much._

[02:35] _I want you to know I’m coming to terms with hating myself for it._

[02:36] **christ apollo don’t be so frickin dramatic alright? you sound like a real dumbass.**

[02:37] **it’ll be fine**

[02:37] **just stop talking like that**

[02:41] **hey enjolras don’t fuck off on me**

[02:42] **enjolras**

[02:43] _yeah?_

[02:43] **you wanna do something for me? something to make up for it?**

[02:43] _Anything_.

[02:45] **i want you to go to bed. take the trash can from the bathroom and put it beside you so you can vomit in it if you need to during the night. put a glass of water on that shitty bedside table of yours too. then text me when you wake up in the morning. swear you will.**

[02:46] _I will. Although, that’s not enough to make up for everything._

[02:46] **it’s what i want right now.**

[02:47] _Alright. I’ll do it now._

[02:48] **good, sleep.**

[02:49] _Goodnight Grantaire._

[02:50] **goodnight.**

*

“Don’t cuss at me Combeferre, you watch your mouth!”

“I will watch my mouth once you are using your brain.”

They’re fighting. Courfeyrac is standing in the doorway to their room glaring at the other side of the bed, where Combeferre is turned on him with a snarl that’s just as intimidating as his bare torso and arms tensed in his six foot four frame. His _egalité_ tattoo is dark on his collarbone, and his accent is heavy as it always is when he’s seething.

“You are always like this. You do not need to care for him like he is incompetent Courfeyrac, and you do not need to mother him!”

“ _Mother_ him?” Courfeyrac repeated, affronted. “Since when is caring about the welfare of my best friend _mothering_? Just because I haven’t given up on him for not doing what I want, unlike _somebody._ ”

“He needs to learn.”

“He needs to have help!”

“No!” Combeferre spat, jabbing a finger at him accusingly. “He has had too much help, he is like a spoilt child!”

“Where the hell is this coming from?!” Courfeyrac cried, stepping into the bedroom as Combeferre turned to start rifling through their built in wardrobe – the floor to ceiling window cast cold, clear light from New York heights’ onto the two of them. “Combeferre, why are you being like this?”

“ _Enjolras me rends furieux.”_

“I can frickin see that!” Courfeyrac grabbed the clothes he was shoving aside with one hand and his wrist with the other. “He’s going through hell, stop being so unfair!”

Combeferre glared at him, his expression strangely raw without his glasses on. “I am not unfair.” He tugged his hand back with ease. “He is not the only one in hell.”

“What, so now this is about you?”

“Not _me_ , _mon dieu_ , Grantaire!” he shouted, at last finding the shirt he’d apparently been look for and wrenching it out of the wardrobe. “My god, all the people in this place are mad.”

Courfeyrac grit his teeth and watched him put his arms through the dark purple sleeves, Combeferre’s back very deliberately turned away from him now. He’d come home angry, muttering something about racial bias and another refused application. Then a call about Enjolras, from Jehan, because of Grantaire.

“Grantaire’s more my friend than yours, Ferre, don’t act like I don’t care about him.”

“You care for Enjolras too much.”

“How-how can you say that?”

He glanced sidelong at him. Exhaled in a way that was half a growl, half a huff. “I don’t mean- look, Courfeyrac, this is something we already know.” He turned to face him as he did up the shirt buttons, looking at him now. “We have known Enjolras for the longest time. And we have always been silent about the way he is with Grantaire.”

“I’m not _silent,_ I tell him-“

“It’s not enough,” Combeferre interrupted. “It is not enough to just _tell_ him he is being harsh. He is too stubborn. We have to _show_ him that it is unacceptable, then he will learn- ah, _cheri_ , please don’t make that face at me.”

Courfeyrac was starting to feel ill. He gripped the wardrobe door handle slightly. Combeferre sighed, broad shoulders dropping. He let his hands fall to his sides and threw his gaze out the window as if looking for inspiration in the skyscrapers.

“What’s happening?” Courfeyrac murmured. Combeferre stayed silent, and soon he stepped forward with a rising voice. “What’s happening to the world if we’re leaving each other behind, Combeferre? He’s _Enjolras_ , he’s _ours_ , I’m not going to- to _punish_ him for what he’s done to Grantaire with coldness and- and _silence!”_

“Then what?” Combeferre said, looking down at him. “We speak words that he will not hear. Like we have done before.”

“He listens to us.”

“Enjolras does not listen to anyone.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Courf-“ Combeferre grit his teeth and almost pointed a damning hand again – he clenched it into a fist to stop himself and looked sideways. After a beat he continued, quieter. “Courf, a triangle cannot…” he sighed. “A triangle cannot have a leader, you understand?”

“No.”

“We are not equal. Our- our ‘triumvirate’, you call it. It isn’t a group of equal opinions.”

Courfeyrac stared at him.

“We are stupid to think Enjolras, you and I are on the same level. That we are equally important as his own opinion. He does not listen to me. He does not listen to you. Not unless the opinion we have is already in line with his own, don’t you see?”

But the look on Courfeyrac’s face solidified into determination and he grit his teeth. “I can’t believe this. You’re just mad from the interview, you’re not thinking clearly.” He turned out of the bedroom and headed through to the kitchen, leaving Combeferre in the bedroom to roll his eyes.

“Courfeyrac-“

“Enjolras isn’t a fucking dictator!” he called back, before slamming the kitchen door.

Combeferre growled to himself and felt the urge to slam something too, maybe the wardrobe door would do. He exhaled. Resisted the feeling and, closing his eyes, brought himself back to a tight, controlled centre. After doing up the rest of his shirt buttons, glancing around for his glasses blurrily but failing to see them on the bed, he resigned himself to following his soulmate without them (carefully).

Courfeyrac was switching on the oven when he opened the door.

“I don’t want to talk about this right now, Combeferre, you’ve upset me a lot,” he said immediately, turning a dial precisely then straightening up to tie his blue apron strings. Combeferre sighed again and leant on the doorjamb, arms crossed.

“I won’t, Combeferre!” he insisted, not looking at him. “I still have to make dinner and the last thing I was expecting was a discussion of how our group is- is collapsing.”

“It’s not ‘collapsing’, Courf.”

“It sounds like it to me!” he said a little hysterically, pulling down a bowl from the cupboard and almost slamming it on the counter. “You sound like you suddenly _hate_ Enjolras!”

“I’m just saying that he’s too privileged!” he returned with exasperation. “He always gets his way and it took Grantaire having an accident for us to realise it’s going too far!”

“I know people aren’t employing you right now, Ferre, you don’t have to bring Enjolras’ privilege into this as well.” It was uncharacteristically sharp for Courfeyrac, but neither of them cared.

“Do you know what Jehan told me today?”

“No.”

“They said that Grantaire came into their bedroom to sleep in their bed, because he was so worried about Enjolras that he was having problems.”

“And that’s reason to abandon Enjolras, how?” Courfeyrac demanded, turning and putting his hands on his hips. Combeferre met his eyes evenly.

“ _Grantaire_ was worried about _Enjolras._ Doesn’t that irony anger you?”

Courfeyrac glared up at him. “Stop trying to pit me against him.” His voice wavered slightly.

“Courfeyrac.”

“It’s a shit situation, okay?!” he cried, and his face scrunched up with different emotions. “I hate that Grantaire is in such a bad place, and I hate that Enjolras is too! I can want the best for both of them, I don’t have to treat Enjolras like shit just to be kind to Grantaire!”

“I agree.”

“Then…?” He threw up his hands, staring at him with wide, mournful eyes. “What do you want me to do?”

“Help Enjolras to help Grantaire,” he said, adding as Courfeyrac opened his mouth, “And that _doesn’t_ mean that we keep enabling him to be the same. We teach him how to make the situation better for _both_ of them, not just his own for once.”

“Giving him the cold shoulder won’t do that.”

“Fine. Then let’s think of something else.”

“That’s what I was saying.”

“Fine.”

They looked at each other for a moment. Courfeyrac threw his hands up a second time.

“We could have got to that without you saying all that about- about him not listening to us!”

Combeferre looked down, eyes on his arms as he thought. After a moment: “I still think that, sometimes.”

“Well…” Courfeyrac sighed. “Well let’s just hope he listens to us this time, okay? I think he will. I think he always listens to us.”

“Alright.”

“At least let’s agree to disagree.”

“Agreed. The plan, then?”

Courfeyrac’s shoulders relaxed, and he leant a hand on the counter. Combeferre lifted his eyes to watch him think – he liked watching his hazel eyes turn introspective, like a pixie thinking of a spell as the argument dissipated.

“Maybe we invite him over,” he murmured eventually. “Not now, tomorrow or the day after. Start… working out with him what he needs to do better. _And_ ,” he gave Combeferre a pointed glance, “make sure he’s okay, too.”

Combeferre nodded. They met each other’s gazes again, and this time it was palatable that they were seeing each other’s faces, not just looking at them.

“I’m sorry for shouting,” Combeferre said dutifully, a rule long ago established.

“Sorry for cussing,” Courfeyrac mumbled back. It made Combeferre smile, but he didn’t say anything more. Then Courfeyrac glanced around the kitchen, starting to chew his lip. “Gosh, I haven’t even started anything.”

“Come back to the bedroom.”

“I-“ he looked at him. “What?”

He watched Combeferre’s mouth tick up a little, watched him shrug his shoulders. “Don’t cook. Come read one of my thesis drafts for me.”

“Why are you saying that in your ‘come hither’ voice?” Courfeyrac said warily.

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Are- I have to cook.”

Combeferre looked at him. Courfeyrac felt himself going red, and something starting fluttering happily in his belly. “Ferre, stop.”

Combeferre grinned and pushed off the doorjamb, suddenly getting taller and broader as he stepped up to him. “Come read my thesis,” he murmured, uncrossing his arms and bringing his hands to rest gently on the sharp bones of Courfeyrac’s hips. Courfeyrac felt the counter press behind him and swallowed – any trace of the anger was gone.

“Is- is that the new euphemism?”

“Do you want it to be?”

“Extended academia is… is my kink,” he replied, less smooth than he would have liked – he was looking up into Combeferre’s glasses-less eyes, and seeing them get darker was completely distracting. Combeferre laughed a little, expression flickering with affection.

“Come to bed.”

“Okay.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, screw cooking.”

Combeferre smiled. “Perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments keep me on track, kudos makes me happy! thanks for reading lovelies <3

**Author's Note:**

> next chapter soon! kudos and comments make my day. \\(^-^*)/


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